The Meaning of Christmas
by The White Masque
Summary: Fox Mulder is a loner; he seems to have always been one. Once Scully was partnered with him though, he learned that needn't always be alone. After a night of hauntings and horrors on Christmas Eve 1998, neither agent should be completely on their own. Aware of this, Scully invites him to her mother's on Christmas day. Begins at the final scene of "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Happy December 1st, readers!_

Here I have the beginnings of a Christmas-themed multi-chapter story. It is based around the Season 6 episode, "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas," and begins with the final scene of the episode!

 _Partial inspiration for the story goes to ThexInvisiblexGirl and her wonderful oneshot_ Her Little Brother. _If you're in the mood for some holiday spirit, I'd wholly recommend reading it!_

 _I hope you all have a great holiday season, and please enjoy!_

* * *

Mulder and Scully scuttled over to the couch presents in hand. Immediately upon sitting down, Mulder began to shake his gift curiously, a grin plastered on his face.

"Wonder what it could be," he murmured. Scully glanced over, and seeing his childish delight, chuckled before turning back to her own gift. Mulder began hastily tearing off the ribbon and digging into the wrapping paper. It came off in long, jagged strips. He turned to his partner to see she had managed to remove her little ribbon, as well, and was fighting with the crinkled wrapping paper encapsulating the end of her cylindrical tube-shaped present.

"You're getting along faster than I am," she remarked as she noticed his present was halfway unwrapped.

"You just got to tear into it, Scully," he replied with a smile. "No mercy!" He set his present down in his lap to watch her proceed. As much as he was curious to see what Scully had gotten him—a book by the feel of the binding and slew of pages—he really wanted to see Scully's reaction to his gift.

Ultimately, Mulder was just pleased his partner had decided to forego their "no gifts" agreement this year, too. After the night they had had in a haunted mansion with a pair of lovesick ghosts intent on making them engage in a lover's pact, they needed a bit of holiday spirit.

Maurice's assertions that he was a narcissistic egomaniac who only stuck around with Scully out of fear of being alone rang through his head. They had unsettled them, and Scully had seemed a bit unsettled herself when she first arrived at his door minutes' earlier. Mulder wondered if the ghosts had pulled a similar stunt on her, using pop psychology to coax her into questioning the nature of their relationship. Taunting her with alternative reasons for why she might continue working alongside him. Insinuating that she was, in fact, all alone and could escape that loneliness through one momentous act.

Even while the ghosts' final plot had been foiled, all the talk by Maurice and Lyda seemed to set them on a course for Christmas Eve companionship. Scully had come knocking on his door, after all, citing she was unable to sleep. Mulder knew that like him, she just didn't want to be alone. So in a weird, twisted way, perhaps the old lovers' plan had worked.

Mulder grinned as Scully finally succeeded in unwrapping her gift from him. The wrapping paper was pooled in a pile at her feet, ribbons included. Her brows knit together and her mouth slipped open as she examined the plastic cylindrical tube in her hands.

He studied her face, realizing immediately that Maurice had been wrong in his allegation of why he kept Scully around. He wasn't looking for Scully's reactions to reflect back on him, as a means to give him an ego boost. She didn't exist to be an asset to him, like why people wore designer clothes—to accentuate one's supposed finer qualities. The point was to hear Scully out as both a professional partner and as a friend who he confided in to the utmost. He wanted to hear her counter-theories and opinions—otherwise he'd only be stuck in his own head, and what kind of man would that make him? Namely the narcissistic egomaniac Maurice claimed he was.

Ultimately, Scully helped Mulder in holding him back and preventing him from becoming that sort of monster. She saved him, and Mulder couldn't think of any way to properly repay her for all she had given him. All he could offer were small kindnesses and an obscure Christmas present. Maybe he could offer something more one day.

Scully held the gift up in the lamplight next to her. There was a thin cardboard insert slipped into the interior of the tubing proudly announcing the name of the product along with enticing catchphrases and all sorts of legal jargon. She was trying to make out what the flashy lettering said.

"I know it's not much—" Mulder began to apologize, realizing the gift was absurdly cheap and was otherwise just plain absurd to give to a grown woman.

"'Eye Spy Spyglass,'" Scully read aloud, cutting him short. She slowly turned back to him with a smirk on her face. "A telescope, Mulder?" she asked, holding out the package with a questioning glance. Mulder smiled lightly.

"Well, I was worried your reading glasses weren't a strong enough prescription." A small scoff escaped her mouth, but she was smiling.

"Thanks," she returned exaggeratedly, picking at the tape on the lid and flipping it open. She turned the cylinder over and a little, plastic, red telescope fell into her open palm along with a little instruction booklet. She set the manual on the coffee table, and turned the toy over in her hands. It measured about 6 inches long and could be extended to a foot long when opened up. Both lens caps on either end were made of black plastic. She peered through the eyepiece at Mulder's TV, shutting her other eye to gain better focus.

"You look ready to take on the high seas," Mulder teased, noting her concentration. One side of her face was scrunched up as she looked about the living room with her predominant eye. She suddenly lowered the spyglass, slid it shut, and dropped it to her lap, looking at Mulder thoughtfully.

"Funny. I was just thinking that I hadn't handled a telescope since Ahab used to take me out sailing when I was a kid," she commented. "When he was on shore leave from Miramar, he'd rent a boat and take me, my brothers, and Melissa on the water. Sometimes Bill and Charlie would be at sports practice—they liked to play baseball and football—and Melissa wasn't always in the mood to go, so he'd take me alone. Mom was always so nervous," Scully laughed lightly, "but dad was stubborn. He never could be far from the water." She spun the little telescope in her hands, staring down at it.

Scully was rarely so open and unguarded, but she was always especially so when it concerned her father. She had a soft spot for the Navy captain and still dearly missed him despite the fact that he had already died five years earlier. Mulder tried to remember last time he had seen Scully in such a reflective state, and he recalled their nighttime conversation in Washington state after they were marooned on a large rock just a few feet from shore while on the lookout for the notorious Big Blue. Scully had spoken of her father then and explained the origins of their respective nicknames: "Starbuck" and "Ahab." Logically, it had to do with _Moby Dick_ , but the Herman Melville novel was more than just a story about an elusive white whale to her. It was a bonding point between her and her father, something to keep her father's memory close to her even in death.

Mulder liked to ignore the point in their talk where Scully insisted that _he_ was very much like Ahab, dangerously obsessed with his pursuit and willing to twist everything and anything he came in contact with to aid him in his quest. It fit in too well with Maurice's profile of him, and he never wanted to be the man Maurice made him out to be.

"Sounds like a good man," he said aloud, forcing his thoughts to filter back to the present.

"If he spotted dolphins or anything out on the waves, he'd call me over and hand me his telescope," she continued at his prompting. "When I was looking, he would talk to be about the species: their habitat, what they ate, how they lived. He thought we ought to learn to respect the sea. While we can marvel in its beauty, we can't ever forget the danger it poses."

"Smart man, too," Mulder added, now watching his partner intently. Scully looked at him.

"Too bad for him I joined the FBI." Scully chuckled. "Just about the most dangerous profession I could have chosen."

"So long as you took your father's lesson to heart," Mulder returned lightly. He didn't want to delve into the stark reality of her statement—that being an FBI field agent _was_ immensely dangerous. It never did any good. "And learned to respect the dangers that we face, exercising caution and refraining from taking big risks."

"You mean instead of behaving like you?" She quirked an eyebrow with a sly smile. Mulder released a self-deprecating chuckle.

"I heartily recommend against doing what I do, but I'm fine so long as you always have my back." And he meant that. Scully was always there to pull him back from the edge, and he owed her his life many times over for that.

"I try to," she returned with a small smile. Slowly it faded as she carefully regarded him, her eyes narrowing some. Mulder wondered to himself why she was suddenly scrutinizing him, and he unwaveringly met her gaze. "I hate to say it, Mulder," she said after a moment, "but Ahab probably would have hated you." It was Mulder's turn to appear insulted. He knew she didn't mean the remark to be as caustic as it sounded; she was laughing a bit, after all. But it sure sounded like an affront to his character.

"Not enough of a salty sailor for the likes of him?" he asked with a smirk.

"Too impulsive," Scully answered. "And he never did like any guy that took an interest in me."

"Good thing my teenaged self never came across you then. Otherwise I'd be six feet under." But Mulder took her words to heart; Captain Scully had been intensely protective of his daughter. Even a platonic friendship such as there's would have likely be suspect under the critical eye of the Navy man. At least he knew where Bill got it from now.

"You were a big flirt when you were young, Mulder?" Her eyes were alight with mischief as her lips curled into a smile. Mulder considered his teenage years for a moment.

"Could we just say I was and end it at that?" Even in high school he was much too torn up by Samantha's abduction and the degrading relationship between his parents to give much thought to girls. He liked them; he appreciated their figures as they strode down the high school hallways, but it wasn't until Oxford that he really came into his own in that regard.

"No," Scully said brusquely. "That would be too easy for you." She fiddled with the telescope in her hands. Mulder sighed, looking down at the wrapping paper-lined carpet for a moment, before returning his gaze to his partner.

"The suave and sophisticated man you see before you is really only a byproduct of his college days," he answered truthfully. "Getting away from the good old U. S. of A. let me grow as a person—to figure out who I was outside everything that had happened. And I met Phoebe," he added with a chuckle, remembering the antics they had gotten up to in their early years together before she had decided to play mind games at his expense. "Hard to be shy around her."

"I remember," Scully agreed with arched eyebrows and a smirk. Mulder eyed her, wondering which specific incident she was remembering from Phoebe Greene's short visit to the United States five years ago. All the explicit sexual innuendos? All the attempts to show her dominion over him? Fifteen years later, he could recall positive memories with her fondly, but he'd not forgotten how she used to toy with him and his heartstrings on a whim. And Scully had played witness to that on a few occasions.

"Phoebe helped me grow into myself, and I appreciate that," Mulder said, feeling he needed to set down the facts for Scully's benefit. "But I am more than happy to be free of her cloying, sticky spider's web."

"Trying to convince yourself of that?" Scully teased, no doubt recalling how foolish he'd been when Phoebe was around. When she was there, he was just wrapped up in her whether he wanted to be or not.

"I am plenty convinced," Mulder assured her. "In fact, I don't need any convincing when it comes to Phoebe. I _know_." Scully chuckled.

"Somehow, Mulder, I think she still has you wrapped around her little finger."

"You see, _that's_ Phoebe's power," Mulder agreed. "She has a hypnotic pull, like a siren's call, and I'm one of the sorry seamen getting dashed up against the rocks."

"Sounds like you and I need to make a Ulysses' contract as opposed to a lover's pact, Mulder," Scully remarked. "As a safeguard should you come under Phoebe's influences again."

Mulder appreciated her clever continuation of his literary reference to _The Odyssey_. Where he had noted the infamous sirens and their alluring voices, Scully had remarked on the specific occasion when Odysseus had a run in with the otherworldly women. Traditionally, a Ulysses' contract referred to the agreement made between Odysseus and his shipmen when they passed by the mesmerizing sirens; the men were to clog their ears with wax and Odysseus was to be bound to the ship's mast so he could hear their ethereal voices without fear of inducing harm. In the event he were to escape and jeopardize their mission, his men were to kill him. In modern terminology, a Ulysses' pact referred to a decision made in the present that would only come into effect in the future. Mulder knew this, but he found the opportunity for mischief too good to pass up.

"You want to tie me to the mast, Scully?" Mulder said suggestively, a lazy grin spreading across his features. "A bit daring for you, don't you think?" Scully coolly regarded him from behind her blue eyes. She'd heard too many of his flirtations over the years to be even remotely shocked by them.

"Not if I intend to just leave you there," she returned, surprising him with an actual verbal response rather than her customary eye-roll. He grinned outright before forcing himself to sober some.

"That's not quite as fun as I imagined," he admitted. Scully rolled her eyes, lightly tapping the telescope against her lap.

Mulder couldn't help but feel a small sense of victory at her reaction; his flirtations and her blatant attempts to ignore them were just part of the game between them, and he always found it an enjoyable game to play. It wasn't necessarily because he sought her to respond in any other way than the norm; he wasn't looking for her to flirt back in kind. Frankly, he wasn't entirely sure what he would do if she did one day. He just found comfort in the age-old routine between them: his purposefully egging her on and her unabashedly shutting him down.

"Well, fun or not," she said, continuing to not disappoint him as she forced the conversation to a close. "I suppose I owe you thanks for this." She held up the telescope with a smile. "I'd almost forgotten about sailing around with Ahab, and you made me remember those good times with him." She set the telescope on her lap and reached across Mulder's lap for his hand.

"You're welcome, Scully," he replied, finding her thanks completely unnecessary. But he obligingly held her hand for a moment before she released her grip and drew her arm back. Mulder looked down at the half-unwrapped present in his lap.

"Guess it's my turn," he remarked, picking it up and pulling away the last of the wrapping paper. As he expected, it was a book. But it wasn't any book he'd expect from Scully, a woman of science. He looked down at a well-worn copy of _The Dodgers Move West_ by Neil J. Sullivan, a baseball memoir of sorts by the looks of the cover and inside flap of the book jacket. "Wow, Scully," he said, skimming the synopsis. As an avid baseball fan, he knew of the Brooklyn Dodgers controversial move to LA in 1958. He was aware that there had been a lot of political maneuvering going on behind the scenes that led to the uprooting of one of the most popular baseball teams of the east coast before planting it into the rival west coast, but he'd never gotten a chance to look into the event's history in depth.

"I thought you might like it," Scully said at his side, leaning in to read the book's synopsis alongside him. "I'd heard no end about the Dodgers growing up with Bill, Charlie, and Ahab in California. And there were always jokes about us being related to the great Vin Scully." Mulder glanced over at her.

"If you were related to Vin Scully, you'd have major bragging rights."

"Sadly it's all just wishful thinking and rumor," Scully returned with an amused smile. "Though Bill and Charlie stood by the claim until they were well into their teens. They liked the attention."

"And here I was preparing to propose to you," Mulder teased. Scully rolled her eyes and characteristically ignored him.

"It's not new," she noted, indicating that he should flip to the publication page. "It's from '87 and is obviously used, but I was perusing through a bookshop in Georgetown and saw it. Thought it might be a good addition on your bookshelf." Mulder paged through the book, feeling the worn edges against his thumb, before lightly _thumping_ it closed.

"It'll be the next thing I read," he said, turning to his partner. Her caught her up in an awkward one-armed hug as he tried to balance the book against his lap. Scully had set the telescope to one side and easily wrapped her arms around him. "Thanks, Scully," he whispered against her hair.

"Merry Christmas, Mulder," she returned. He pulled away, picked up the book once more, and smiled at her.

"Well, the good thing is it'll be hard for me to forget who gave me this with your name plastered on all the pages." He gently set the book on the coffee table.

"My family name, Mulder," she corrected.

"You'll always be 'Scully' to me." He leaned back against the couch and nudged her playfully with his shoulder. She laughed lightly, slipping her telescope back into its packaging. As her eyes rounded upward again, her expression registered surprise. She glanced at her watch.

"Oh God, is it 2:30 already?" She silently groaned to herself, leaning back against the couch cushions. "I have to be up early tomorrow—or today rather—to be at my mother's for opening presents and Christmas day dinner." Mulder smirked at her disheartened display; she wasn't likely to get much sleep.

"Nothing better than traipsing around a murder house on a cold winter's night, huh, Scully?" Mulder commented cheekily, reaching for the nearby waste bin and picking up the long strips of wrapping paper and ribbon from the floor to throw away. Scully helped.

"Especially on Christmas Eve," she countered with a strained smile.

"You heard the story," Mulder said. "It had to be on Christmas Eve; the anniversary of Maurice and Lyda's deaths."

"And yet you had to take drastic action and steal my car keys to get me to stay?" Scully winged an eyebrow at him. Mulder smiled sheepishly as he stuffed the last of the wrapping paper into the bin.

"You can't tell me you didn't have some fun, Scully," he pressed innocently.

"You mean when I wasn't looking at a pair of staged corpses under the floorboards or led to believe that I was bleeding out from a gunshot wound?" Mulder reconsidered his previous statement; she had a point.

While he had been charmed by some of the ghosts' antics, like Lyda's trick with the bookshelf as she sought a picture of a much younger, much more alive Maurice and Lyda, other actions had unsettled him. Like the appearance of his and Scully's "corpses," the labyrinthian floor plan with the magically appearing and disappearing brick walls, when he was suddenly and unexpectedly shot.

He rocked his head from side to side, trying to find something positive to glean from the night's adventures.

"Well, you have to admit it had all the elements of a great horror classic," he admitted with a shrug. "A spooky ambience, creaking staircase, and ghostly apparitions. It felt like we'd stepped into _House on Haunted Hill_ or _The Haunting_." That still wasn't enough to transform the experience into a fond memory, though. Even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

When he had requested that Scully meet him at the Maryland house earlier that evening, he had expected an exciting jaunt through a haunted house, a chance to come face to face with evidence of the paranormal. He had never expected to put his and his partner's life in such jeopardy.

Scully was leaning back against the couch watching him carefully.

"I guess it wasn't that much fun, after all," he admitted, turning to look at her with a half-hearted smile. "Sorry to have pulled you out there on Christmas."

Mulder found himself regretting his decision to call Scully out from her warm, cozy apartment. Certainly, he had wanted a night's fun and adventure outside the parameters of their work environment, and he had wanted to spend the evening with Scully. But that was no excuse to get the two of them nearly killed.

He leaned back against the couch beside her with a sigh. Scully looked at him for a moment before sliding an arm through his and wrapping her fingers around his hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Mulder couldn't help but rest his head against hers in turn. He felt he could so easily drift off to sleep like that.

Mulder lost track of time as he sat there. In her own way, Scully was refuting his apology, telling him she was happy to be there with him. That he shouldn't apologize for the crazy events in Maryland. While she hadn't wanted to be dragged out of her home on Christmas Eve, she ultimately didn't mind it in the least.

She shifted beside him, and Mulder opened his eyes. She released her hold on him and pulled her arm away.

"I think I ought to get going," she said sleepily, stretching out her tired limbs and once more glancing at her watch. Mulder wondered if she had drifted off to sleep. He looked over at the clock sitting on his desk. 2:47. It wasn't that much later.

"You have family to get to and presents to unwrap," Mulder commented neutrally, watching as his partner stood and picked up her gift from the coffee table. She looked down at him for a moment.

"I didn't get to thank you for inviting me out tonight," she said quietly. "While it wasn't _quite_ my idea of fun—"

"Mine neither," Mulder interrupted with a smile. She chuckled.

"—after the night we just had, I learned you're not to be alone at Christmas. Come to my mother's with me tomorrow." Mulder wondered if he had heard right; he knew that both he and Scully were fairly tired after their evening out. Maybe she had misspoke or maybe she wasn't quite in her right mind.

"I-I couldn't do that," he stammered with a shake of his head.

"I'd like you to come, Mulder," Scully insisted. Well, that confirmed that he had heard her correctly. But he was still baffled as to why she was inviting him. She had said herself that Christmas Day was her mother's get together; it was time for the Scully clan to reconnect over the holidays and celebrate with one another. He wasn't a Scully, and he had no purpose at Mrs. Scully's table. Mulder shook his head again.

"It's not my place, Scully," he clarified. "You go have a good time with your mom and brothers. I'll see you on Monday back at the office."

"Mulder," Scully repeated his name again. "I won't have you sit here alone all day tomorrow eating cheese sandwiches and drinking beer while watching _A Christmas Story_ on a loop." She looked about the living room around her despondently. Mulder smiled grimly.

"I'd be eating sunflower seeds and a leftover sub from the other day," he corrected.

"The point still stands, Mulder," she argued, her voice taking on her frustrated tone. "You'll be alone. _I_ don't want that. I'd rather you come with me. It'll just be for the day and then you'll be back home."

The offer was tempting. Mulder wasn't looking forward to another Christmas alone. The Gunmen were already off and busy elsewhere for the holiday weekend, and Mulder rarely saw his mother these days. Scully's was the only offer open to him. He sighed.

"Will Bill be there?" he asked, thinking on Scully's elder brother who knowingly loathed him with every fiber of his being.

"Yes," she replied, drawing out the affirmation, "but ignore him. I know my mother would be happy to have you over." Mulder had always liked Mrs. Scully; despite his massive screw up years earlier in letting Duane Barry kidnap Scully, she had never blamed him. Instead she found a source of strength in him. And she was one of the few who had some grasp of the intensity of the relationship between himself and Scully, and she never sought to break them up. She never saw Mulder as a danger to her daughter. It was a refreshing change of pace.

"Are you sure, Scully?" he asked. "I would be perfectly happy here." He didn't want to unwittingly intrude on the Scully family in any way.

"Come," she said again. "My mom and I would be happy to have you. You'd get to meet Charlie. It won't be as bad as you might think." Mulder had forgotten how sharp Scully was; she saw through his hesitations. He smiled embarrassedly. "Make it a follow-up Christmas gift," she prompted.

"Would that be for you or me?" She shrugged.

"Whichever you prefer."

"Well then," he said, feeling a mixed sense of defeat and relief, "Merry Christmas, Scully."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. And otherwise, a happy holiday season to my readers!_

* * *

When he had been invited to Scully's mom's on Christmas day, Mulder hadn't expected to start out the day laden with bags and boxes while standing out in the cold. After parking her little Ford Taurus on the freshly-plowed albeit slushy street of the east coast suburban town, Scully had requested Mulder's help in getting the bundle of gifts packed in her backseat into the house. So, of course, Mulder had obliged, picking up the two large paper bags of presents and essentially leaving Scully hands free.

"Mulder, you don't need to take it all," she said, reaching out a hand to take one of the brimming bags. Mulder swung the bags away from her with a playful smile.

"I got it, Scully," he replied. Scully stared at him for a long moment, deciding whether or not she should heed his claim. Finally, she shrugged, but not before raising a warning finger.

"Just don't fall. There are some fragile things in there." She dropped a gloved hand to one of the medium-sized boxes sitting at the top of the present pile. Mulder looked up the black asphalt driveway and concrete sidewalk leading up to the house; someone had been kind enough to shovel walkways after the night's snowfall, but dirtied globs of grey slush still coated some areas.

"Look who's talking," Mulder returned, running his eyes down her coat-clad figure to the pair of black pumps she wore. "Those things are a tripping hazard if I ever saw one." Scully glanced down at her shoes in turn before raising an arched eyebrow at Mulder.

"These heels are shorter than the ones I usually wear," she informed him pointedly.

Mulder wasn't the sort to normally pay attention to lady's footwear, but he was nothing if not detail-oriented, and after six years of working with Scully, he had a decent grasp on how she dressed herself—despite the stylistic evolution she underwent as she got more settled into the X-Files. The straightened auburn hair of a new field agent, the 28 year-old Scully of 1992, had morphed into a titian-colored bob. And the overbearing pants-suits had gotten an overhaul; she primarily stuck to button-down blouses with a well-tailored suit jacket and a matching pair of slacks or a skirt. But she had always maintained a specific taste in shoes; sleek, stylish, leather stilettos—often with about a three inch heel. It was sharp; it was professional, and Mulder had to admit: it was sexy. He looked down at her current choice of footwear again and resolved to take in a bit more detail than upon his initial inspection. The shoes she wore at the edge of Mrs. Scully's driveway were the furthest thing from her customary day-to-day wear: they were little suede things with a block heel.

"New shoes?" he asked, once more meeting her eyes. She scuffled them against the asphalt.

"No," she said with a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "I just don't get much opportunity to wear them." Watching him a moment longer, she ensured she had locked her car and started up the driveway. With a silent chuckle to himself, Mulder followed.

Special Agent Dana Scully. Doctor Dana Scully. Scully. Those were all people Mulder had become acclimated to in six years of partnership. But he had never had the opportunity to get to know "Dana."

As he stood at Margaret Scully's front door, he realized he was about to get that chance.

The chill nipped at Mulder's face and hands. He hadn't brought a hat and he had stupidly forgotten to pull on his winter gloves; they were buried uselessly in his coat pocket. Meanwhile, the stringy, cord-like handles of the twin paper bags were cutting into his palms, so he was forced to readjust his grip frequently. Scully was the picture of practicality: bundled up in a winter coat and wearing a set of cashmere-lined driving gloves with a simple black scarf hanging from her shoulders. Mulder had his coat on at the very least, but he couldn't wait until they'd be allowed into the presumably warm, cheery house and out of the cold.

"You know, Scully," he said, silently counting the seconds as they waited, "I feel more like a porter than a house guest at the moment." She tossed a glance his way, and he smirked in response. "Your mother's cooking better be worth it."

"You were the one who decided you had to be chivalric," she pointed out, gesturing to the loaded-down bags. "I offered to help."

Scully became minutely distracted; movement could be seen through the translucent curtains and small glass panes bordering the door on either side. With the click of a lock and jiggle of the handle, the door swung open.

"There you are, Dana!" Mrs. Scully greeted with a warm, welcoming smile; Mulder detected a hint of relief to her demeanor. "We were wondering where you were." She was wearing black dress slacks and a forest green sweater, but the ensemble was obscured by a large apron covering her. Mulder guessed she had been hard at work in the kitchen.

"Hi, Mom," Scully greeted as she wrapped her arms around the petite woman in a hug. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Dana," she returned liltingly before turning her eyes on Mulder. Her smile widened into a broad grin. "Fox!" she said. "I hadn't been expecting you."

"Scully roped me into it," Mulder replied good-naturedly with a smile of his own. Unable to hug him that moment given his encumbered state, Mrs. Scully put a hand on his arm.

"And I'm glad she did. You're always welcome at my table, Fox." Mulder could sense the genuineness in Mrs. Scully's offer, and it was altogether foreign for him. Being so distant from his own mother and father for so many years leant him to becoming more of a loner than was perhaps necessary. He didn't keep many friends or loved ones around, and he certainly didn't receive offers to come join other families during their holiday meals. More often than not, he kept to himself or spent the day with the Gunmen.

"Thank you, Mrs. Scully," Mulder returned, slightly embarrassed. He noticed Scully's sly smile at his side; she had noticed his mild discomfort, and she was too sharp for her own good. Mrs. Scully hastily step back from the doorway to give them passage.

"Well, come in," she said, beckoning to them. Mulder was careful to knock most of the snow from his shoes before stepping into the entrance hall. He didn't want to be the one to dirty her practically spotless floors, and it would be only like him to do so given his naivete of family get togethers.

Mrs. Scully closed the door shut behind them. Scully pulled the gloves from her hands and rubbed them to warm them up again from the chill winter weather outside. Mulder hastily set the bags of Christmas gifts to one side, flexing his sore fingers once he was rid of the weight.

"Now that Dana's not working you like a packhorse," Mrs. Scully said with a teasing look toward her daughter. Scully's brows shot up with an amused smirk.

"Mulder offered, Mom," she informed her. Mrs. Scully waved away the statement.

"No matter." She turned back to Mulder. "Merry Christmas, Fox," she said, reaching up to pull him into a hug. Mulder leaned forward to return the gesture. Mulder noticed Scully hiding a smile as she pocketed her gloves and pulled off her scarf.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Scully," Mulder said, standing upright once he was free of the Scully matron's grasp. He was wholly appreciative of her welcoming manner; he had expected nothing less of Mrs. Scully, especially given how open she was to him and his obtuse ways. To some extent, it helped ease his inherent awkwardness and sense of not belonging, but he was certain that was sure to return once the rest of the Scully family filed in. Nonetheless, he was intent on playing the part of the Christmas day house guest right, even if that included immense discomfort on his part.

"I thought you were going to be here earlier, Dana," Mrs. Scully remarked to her daughter, her eyes furrowing questioningly. "It's already past three." Mulder grimaced; Scully had mentioned they were running late. She had been expected by the late morning, just in time to join the family in opening presents and drinking eggnog. Then she was expected to help her mother in the kitchen. Bill and Charlie both flew in on holiday leave from out of state—Bill from California; Charlie from Texas. Bill, of course, had brought Tara and little Matthew along with him. She had missed valuable, rare family time, and Mulder couldn't help feel like the blame fell at his feet.

"Mulder and I got involved in an investigation late last night," Scully explained, offering the briefest of glances in Mulder's direction. She wasn't the least bit upset; she was being pragmatic and factual. "I'd intended to get up in time for this morning, but—"

"I dragged her into it, Mrs. Scully," Mulder interrupted, uncomfortable with the idea of Scully making excuses on his behalf. As always, it was better to just stick to the truth of the matter. "I had been conducting the investigation, and I asked Scully to join me." Scully looked over at him with a mildly concerned glance. She seemed just as unwilling as him to let one person take the brunt of the blame. Mrs. Scully looked between the two, worry lines creasing her face.

"For work?"

"Personal interest," Mulder answered before Scully had a chance to reply. "There's a house in Maryland that's said to be haunted only on Christmas Eve; I wanted to look into it. At my request, Scully generously gave up her Christmas Eve." Scully shot him a look.

"Mulder, you stole my car keys," she reminded him.

"But you drove out in the first place," he countered. Scully sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Well..." Mrs. Scully interjected once there was a lull in the conversation, "since you were unable to get here earlier, Dana, why not spend the night? Bill and Charlie are here. And Tara and Matthew, of course. We're so rarely all together as a family, and I know you'd like to see your brothers for longer than a few hours."

Though she tried to hide it, Mulder picked up a sense of longing in his partner. Scully's expression was neutral, but her eyes were sharp and intent. He knew for a fact that she didn't see her siblings all that often—only for the occasional holiday or emergency. He remembered it had been years since she saw her younger brother, Charlie.

"Fox, you're welcome to stay, too," Mrs. Scully added with a pointed glance at Mulder. Internally, he about reeled at the offer; it was the last thing he had expected of her. Externally, he just smiled grimly—a strained, unnatural smile. It was especially considerate of her to remember him, but it was not his place to stay. He was already considerably nervous about spending a day in the Scully household, let alone the night and some of the morning after. If Scully wanted to stay, that was her prerogative. There was only one issue with that….

"I would, Mom," Scully said with a disappointed sigh. "But Mulder and I only took the one car, and I told him we'd be back home tonight." Mulder internally winced; he didn't want to seem like the bad guy—the reason Scully couldn't rightfully spend more time with her family during the holidays.

"It's fine, Scully," he said, turning to his partner. "You stay. I'll take the train home later."

" _Today_ , Mulder?" Scully said disbelieving. "Trains will be running on a limited basis given the holiday, and those trains that _are_ scheduled will be packed full of people."

"A taxi, then," Mulder offered as a secondary option. Scully crossed her arms and stared at him.

"They'll be just as busy." With a resigned sigh, Mulder realized she was right. No matter what method, it would be a pain to get back to D.C. by public transportation on Christmas day. If he could even get onto a train or bus—bound to be jam-packed with holiday travelers—it would be slow going, and he'd likely not be home until very late at night. It would be much easier if he just drove himself, but he wasn't about to strand Scully at her mother's just so he could get back to his quiet, little apartment by that evening.

"Fox," interjected Mrs. Scully quietly, "if it's easier for you to stay the night, you're more than welcome to. I already have Bill, Charlie, and the others staying, but there's plenty of room in this big, old house." She offered the slightest of smiles. "I can find room for Dana and yourself." Mulder sighed audibly, closing his eyes. It really was the last thing he wanted, but if he were to be the proper house guest, he'd have to suck up his displeasure and accept the kind gesture. He forced a smile. Both Scully and her mother looked at him warily; they knew that the idea of staying over went against his best instinct.

"I don't want to intrude, Mrs. Scully," he said by way of apology, "but I guess I'll take you up on the offer. I don't want to be the reason to upset your family holiday." Mrs. Scully smiled reassuringly.

"You'll do no such thing, Fox." The smile faded away as she began considering the situation. "Now I just have to figure out the sleeping arrangements. I've put Bill and Tara in my room since they have the baby, and there's the master bathroom there." She spoke more to her daughter than Mulder at this point since Scully was more knowledgeable about the house's layout.

Mulder realized he had only entered the foyer once before, and otherwise knew nothing of what the house looked like. Now he had time to take in Mrs. Scully's home. While normally very alert and aware of his surroundings, Mulder allowed himself to tune out the chatter beside him. As the voices droned in the background, he inspected the residence—or at least what of it he could see while standing in the entrance hall. It was your average, American, suburban home; it was nicely furnished and carefully decorated. A family home through and through. Excluding the houses he entered when conducting investigations and out in the field, Mulder hadn't been in such a carefully composed home in ages. He had a fairly short list of friends, and most of them were bachelors or divorcees—or both, like him. Even his mother's home had been converted to suit her purposes specifically; there was no room for family at Teena Mulder's since Samantha had gone. And yet it seemed Margaret Scully's motto was "the more, the merrier."

 _How did I find myself here?_ Mulder wondered to himself. He concentrated on the two woman occupying the small entrance hall along with him, and a sentence of their conversation finally filtered through his ruminations.

"Perhaps I could put you and Fox in the guest room…." Mrs. Scully was simply musing aloud to herself; she hadn't intended to insinuate anything of his relationship with Scully. Mulder didn't think she had even grasped what she was potentially suggesting. But how that suggestion had hit so close to home for him.

The prospect of sharing a room with Scully intrigued him, even titillated him. Maurice's and Lyda's words from the night before came back to haunt him—tantalizing words meant to provoke him into admitting that he needed Scully with him forever—even unto death. Mulder knew for a fact that he needed Scully, but not in the way the two lovesick ghosts had meant. He was a better person with Scully around; he was a whole person—as he had told her in the hallway of his apartment building just months earlier.

And then they had almost... Mulder didn't like to think on "almosts"—such as the impromptu kiss brought on by pent up frustrations and unwilling goodbyes. Only to be foiled by a genetically-modified bee carrying an extraterrestrial virus at the last second. What mattered is that it hadn't happened. So as far as he and Scully were concerned, they were just what they always were.

But the implications of Mrs. Scully's suggestions were still there—whether she understood them or not—and it left Mulder a bit dumbfounded. Scully had an eerily similar expression of shock on her face.

"Mom...um," Scully stammered, "you're aware that Mulder and I are just partners…."

"Of course, Dana," Mrs. Scully nodded, looking for all the world that she had never thought anything different. Mulder could see the gears in her head spinning furiously as she tried to figure out what her daughter was getting at, and it hit her. Her eyes widened in alarm as she scrambled to correct her earlier statement. "I had only meant to say that I'd rather you both have a bed for the night. I wouldn't want Fox to have to sleep on one of the living room chairs." Mulder just about laughed. He and Scully briefly met one another's eyes. He was grateful for the fact that they could sometimes communicate silently, and he very well knew that he and Scully were on the same page in this case.

"I'm sure Mulder would much prefer one of the lounge chairs, Mom," Scully remarked with an almost imperceptible nod to Mulder before turning back to her mother.

"It's only one night, Mrs. Scully. I'd be fine there," he added with an appreciative smile, hoping to ease Mrs. Scully's embarrassment over her minor faux pas as well as confirm Scully's assertion. She forced a thankful smile, but remained obstinate.

"Fox, if you and Dana were up half the night, it's best for you to get a good night's sleep. An old lounge chair won't give you that." She seemed almost pleading, and it tugged at Mulder's heartstrings. Mrs. Scully had the habit of drudging up the human sentimentality within him unlike any other person in his life, Scully included. "And what kind of hostess would I be?" she added. "Relegating one of my guests to a lounge chair when there's a perfectly good bed available?"

Mulder had always thought Scully's streak of stubbornness came from her father, but her mother could be just as unyielding. He once again felt pressured to fall into the role of the cooperative house guest, even when it went against his better instincts. Yes, of course, there were the Bureau regulations in place prohibiting fraternization with an assigned partner; Mulder was more concerned with the temptations of rooming with Scully. But at Mrs. Scully's home he would be nothing less than a gentleman, refraining from doing anything uncouth and even his standard flirtations with his partner. It wasn't the time or the place. And the already awkward situation needn't be made any awkwarder, especially since Scully was completely ignorant of his internal dilemmas.

"You've convinced me," he said with the slightest of resigned smiles. He was mostly able to hide his discomfort. "So long as Scully's alright with the arrangement…." He looked over at his partner for her input. She blinked at him, undoubtedly surprised at his concession. Though it was her turn to speak, she was distracted—trying to figure him out. Mulder nodded his head minutely, hoping to remind her that he was looking for her contribution. She reared back the slightest bit as reality set in again and turned abruptly to her mother.

"Um…" she coughed, "you said you and Charlie would share the living room pull-out?" She was more perplexed than worried. Mulder suspected her mind was racing as she sought to determine what ulterior motives he had in agreeing to the outlandish suggestion, especially since they had already agreed that he would much prefer sleeping elsewhere.

"Yes," Mrs. Scully nodded cautiously, her wise eyes carefully reading her daughter. "So you and Fox would take the guest room upstairs."

"Um...alright," she agreed with a small nod, glancing at Mulder one more time. He had the distinct impression he would be interrogated later when they found themselves alone. "I just need to get my overnight bag from the car." She pointed over her shoulder to the door and prepared to pull on her gloves once more.

Scully had brought up a very important point that Mulder had completely overlooked.

"Ah, that reminds me," he said aloud, a bit hesitantly. "You're going to have to live with me wearing this strapping ensemble—" He looked down at the navy blue sweater and jeans he wore under his heavy coat. "—all of today and tomorrow. I don't have a change of clothes." Mrs. Scully didn't look the least bit concerned; even more to his surprise, neither did Scully.

"With Bill and Charlie here, I'm sure we can find you a fresh shirt tomorrow," Mrs. Scully said. Mulder wasn't really comforted by the notion, but as he made to object, a shrill, rhythmic beeping pierced through the room from one end of the house. "I think that's the potatoes," Mrs. Scully explained as the sound quieted. "The rest of the family is in the living room. Go on that way when you're ready." Without another word, she strode from the entrance hall. Scully resumed pulling on her gloves, but Mulder gently put a hand to the small of her back.

"I'll get the bag, Scully," he said, leaning close to her. "You go and see your family."

"You sure, Mulder?" Scully asked out of habit. She wasn't the least bit accustomed to being waited on.

"You go ahead," Mulder nodded. "I'll be back in a minute." He turned to the door and reached a hand out to the handle.

"Mulder?" Scully asked. He turned. She looked at him worriedly, her brows knit together as she scrutinized him. "Are you sure you're comfortable with staying in the guest room?" For the slightest of moments, Mulder considered telling her the truth: that he was equally exhilarated and apprehensive. But logic retook his mind, and he did what he always did.

"Why wouldn't I be, Scully?" He offered his best lopsided smile. "And it's not like it's a new situation for us. You've stayed at my place; I've stayed at your place. Hell, we even spent the night together in one of those motels." He was being purposefully vague. His customary back and forths will Scully always calmed him, and he got a kick out of the sexual innuendos.

 _So much for remaining a gentleman,_ he thought unabashedly. Scully fixed him with her sternest gaze.

"Mulder, we've only stayed at each other's apartments when one or the other of us is recovering from a hospital stay." She took a deep breath, readying herself for another go. "And I told you that I don't remember letting you into my room that night! Nothing in the slightest happened, and you know it!" Mulder grinned.

 _Hook, line, and sinker_.

"Believe what you want, Scully." Mulder sidled over to the door and opened it. "But I've told you before: you can't hide the truth from me." He slipped out the front door before Scully had a chance to rebuke him again.

Scully stared at the door so fiercely, she could have burned a hole through it. She sighed, tugging at her gloves again and stuffing them into a pocket. Mulder was relentless in his pokings, proddings, and teasings. Even if he meant well, sometimes it got on her nerves. She slipped her coat off and hung it on a nearby coat rack covered in winter coats of varying styles and colors. Distracted by Mulder's antics, she barely registered the heavy footfalls making their way toward her from the direction of the living room.

"I thought I heard my baby sister," a voice boomed. Her frustration melted away, and she turned, smiling.

"Bill," she greeted, hurriedly walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his burly frame. "It's so good to see you," she said into his chest.

"And you have no idea what it's like to see you like this," Bill returned, stepping back to hold her at arm's length. "No medical emergencies or family tragedies. It seemed like every time I saw you, something bad had happened."

Scully's mind ricocheted down memory lane as she tried to confirm his words; the last times she had seen her big brother, he had come to visit her during her bout with cancer and she had gone to spend last Christmas with him only to summarily meet and lose Emily. The raw wound left in Emily's wake smarmed. It had only been a year since that girl had entered Scully's life, and being near the anniversary of her death, Scully felt the pain just as acutely as when the little girl had suddenly died. She hoped she would be strong enough to survive the visit without breaking down.

Hastily, she walled up the pain and hurt. It couldn't be allowed to disrupt the family holiday.

"I'm so glad you finally took my advice and didn't bring your work home with you," Bill said sincerely, looking down at her. Scully smiled back up at him, trying to be appreciative. Bill could be a bit of an ass. She knew that. He was just doing his best to keep the family together now that their father was gone, and since Captain Scully had been so overly-protective of her throughout her life, Bill was taking on that task.

Scully heard the door handle jiggle, the door swing open, and felt the chill winter air blow against her. Bill looked over her shoulder, staring.

"But you _did_ bring your partner," he remarked numbly. He dropped his arms. Scully turned.

Mulder silently shut the door and quietly set down the little, black suitcase beside the bags of presents. Once he turned back to face the pair of siblings, he immediately registered their expressions. Scully was anxious, well aware that her older brother and he didn't get along. She silently pleaded with him to remain calm and courteous. Bill just looked stunned, but the shock of Mulder's arrival quickly wore off and his expression set into a frown. Mulder sighed to himself; Bill was already surly and ill-tempered. There would be no getting around that.

"Hello, Bill," he greeted, raising a hand. Bill looked from the outstretched hand to his sister.

"Bill," Scully said sternly, meaning to talk down her big brother, "Mulder had no place to go. I invited him." Bill stared at her for a few moments, reading her face and deciding on his options. A begrudging smile came to his lips, and he clapped Scully lightly on the arm. Bill stepped forward and accepted Mulder's hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder." Bill's smile reeked of falsity, but at least he was putting on an effort; it was likely all Mulder could ask of the Navy man. He couldn't expect the two of them to be chummy after over a year of disagreements.

"I hope you're doing well," Mulder said, opting to make small talk.

"Very well. Thank you." The words came out strained, and he hastily detached himself from Mulder, returning to his sister across the room.

Mulder wondered how much trouble she'd be in from her overbearing brother. He was obviously a bit cross, and while Mulder attempted not to eavesdrop, he could pick up that Bill was questioning Scully's decision to invite a stranger to the family dinner—a stranger he hated, no less. Scully was adamantly defending him, her hushed voice raising now and again.

Mulder tried to distract himself with another glance around the little room, but it wasn't doing the job. Thankfully, a more formidable distraction presented itself in the form of Bill's wife, Tara, as she entered the room with baby Matthew. As she passed by her husband, she put a hand to his arm. Mulder noticed that she gave him a firm squeeze, silently warning him to behave himself and cool his temper. He immediately did so, well aware that there'd be hell to pay if he went against his wife's wishes.

Tara continued her trek across the room and stopped in front of Mulder, offering a warm smile. She obviously intended to be more welcoming toward him than her husband.

"Mr. Mulder," she said cheerily. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but we met last Christmas." Her tone was a bit tentative, as if unsure if he recalled her. For the briefest moment, Mulder found himself struck dumb by the necessity of social interaction. Outside work and his few personal relationships, he rarely communicated with the general public. He quickly recovered.

"Tara, yeah," he said suddenly, taking her hand to shake it. She ignored the hand, and pulled him into a one-armed hug, pressing the baby against his chest. Scully caught his eye from across the room; her face was expressionless since she was now calmly speaking to Bill, but Mulder knew she was silently checking up on him—asking if he was alright. Mulder smiled the slightest bit in affirmation, and Scully returned to her conversation. "Thanks for letting me come to your place last Christmas," Mulder added to Tara once they had separated, thinking it safest to proceed with the pleasantries. Tara smiled sympathetically.

"You're very welcome, Mr. Mulder. With the revelation about Emily and Dana's situation—" She looked over to her sister-in-law. "—what other choice did we have? Dana wanted you there."

Last Christmas had been a hard one for Scully. She'd gone off to California expecting to spend a normal holiday with her brother's family only to receive phone calls from beyond the grave—seemingly from her dead sister, Melissa. While Mulder believed adamantly in the validity of spectral manifestations—his attempts at paranormal investigation the night before could be seen as evidence of that—he wasn't entirely sure what to make of Scully's insistence that her deceased sister was phoning her.

Scully was rarely willing to accept a statement or theory without any verifiable proof. That sort of impulsiveness was just not of her nature. So in those moments when she did depend on some manner of faith, Mulder became wary. Her innate form of "belief" was very different from his own. To some extent, she believed in miracles and signs from God, religious events that had the potential to set someone on a specific path; as a rule, Mulder generally detested such occurrences. The only one he wanted in control of his fate was himself, and he was thoroughly uncomfortable with Scully believing so adamantly in some phantom voice—whether it was the so-called "Voice of God" or a long-lost sister.

But rather than debate the matter with Scully, he chose to try and believe her. She was too involved in the entire situation: her sister calling to warn her that a little girl direly needed her help. And—even so far as Mulder was concerned—if any of Scully's relatives were to push the boundaries of spiritual existence, it would be Melissa Scully.

And in a twist that was even more shocking than a collect call from the grave was learning of the existence of Emily, Scully's biological daughter. The moment Scully had called him up in D.C. and told him the baffling revelation, Mulder knew the grim truth: the government had begun its experimentation on the ova harvested from female abductees; they sought to make a human-extraterrestrial hybrid and required the reproductive capabilities of human females to achieve that goal. Scully was one of those victimized women, and Emily was a product of those labors. But because of what Emily was—a test subject, for lack of a better word—she was doomed to die.

And that had torn Scully up.

Standing in the hall of Mrs. Scully's cheery, family-filled home, Mulder stared at his partner across the room. She was smiling and laughing, the picture perfect representation of a young woman home for the holidays. She and Bill had obviously gotten over their minor tiff over his presence; perhaps Bill had realized that the anguish wasn't worth the effort, especially when up against such a competent adversary as Scully. Or maybe he realized his mother would kill him if he dare speak out against a guest—or his wife would kill him, for that matter.

But the point was that Scully was happy, her trials and tragedies temporarily forgotten. Or at least it so appeared. Mulder knew Scully too well; she loved to feign contentment when turmoil was boiling up inside her like a hurricane bearing down on the shore. Mulder wondered when that calm would break, and he suspected it would do so at least once during their stay; the circumstances surrounding her were too similar: a family-filled Christmas only one short year later.

Perhaps it was a good thing he had come along with Scully.

A hand fluttered against his arm. Mulder's eyes darted to Tara's, and she smiled sympathetically at him.

"No matter what my husband says," she said slowly, "you're good for Dana, Mr. Mulder." The baby wavered a bit in her other arm, and she removed her hand to place it against his back, simultaneously steadying him and holding him to her chest.

Mulder felt himself just about stop breathing. He expected such compliments from Mrs. Scully, but not Tara. They had only met a few times before, and in those moments, they barely spoke to one another. And yet she claimed to see something in his and Scully's relationship. What in the world was it?

She turned away from him, but Mulder reached out and gently caught her arm. Tara turned back inquisitively.

"It's Fox." He coughed once, feeling a raspiness to his breathless voice. "You can call me 'Fox,'" he said with more conviction. Tara nodded, an amused smile turning at the corner of her lips, and walked to join her husband and sister-in-law.

"Fox" wasn't exactly his name of choice, but he couldn't expect the entirety of Scully's family to call him by his surname all the time, and Mrs. Scully had already taken to calling him by his first name. As much as he hated it, though, he never really minded it when Mrs. Scully said it. She never spat it out in ridicule or to criticize him. She just said it, and it was natural coming from her. He was under the impression it would slip from Tara's lips just as naturally.

On the sight of her brother's wife, Scully smiled at her and immediately greeted her with a hug, likely more out of familial obligation than actual desired intent. Mulder suddenly realized that Scully likely knew Tara as well as he did; they hardly saw one another since the whole of the United States existed between D.C. and California, but she had to do her duty as a sister-in-law. And that included the looks of adoration when she set sights on Matthew. But the pain was there, too—lurking just behind her eyes. Thankfully, the married couple was well aware of the potential effects of their son and hastily changed the subject to less turbulent matters. As quickly as it came, the pain faded away—boxed up for some unknown period of time.

Bill and Tara had Scully in hand; Mulder could take the moment to himself. He needn't be so customarily protective of her as he usually was.

And since he already happened to be looking at his partner; and since the moment of potential turmoil had passed, he found himself _noticing_ her. Her long coat was gone, and she looked so different than he ever saw her before. It was more than the block heeled shoes. She wore a maroon cardigan with a thin, long-sleeved, off-white shirt beneath that. The neck dipped low and curved at her collarbone, showing plenty of skin around the gold-glinting chain and pendant of her cross necklace. With her hair tucked back behind her ear, Mulder could make out tiny stud earrings glistening in the light. And then to round out the outfit, she wore some simple charcoal gray slacks. Surrounded by the numerous more muted colors and the red of her hair and sweater, the bright blue of her eyes absolutely popped.

Mulder wasn't used to taking note of Scully in such a way; he usually saw her in some variation of the same outfit day-in and day-out. On those occasions when he saw her dressed down some, work usually still had a part to play. So seeing her dressed so casually and colorful was a new experience for him.

While staring at his partner, a new figure mosied into the room. He briefly came to stop behind Bill, and Mulder noticed he was slightly taller than the Navy man, though his bearing wasn't quite so burly. If Bill had been a linebacker on his high school football team, the new visitor had certainly been a quarterback. He seemed light and quick on his feet, but that wasn't to say he was weak. Mulder suspected he was physically stronger than he appeared. Of course, the Scully family as a whole seemed pretty strong.

Mulder surmised that he was staring at Scully's younger brother, Charlie. Firstly, he was the only family member left unaccounted for, and if that wasn't a big enough clue, the reddish tinge to his short, cropped hair was a dead giveaway. After noticing that his sister was caught up in conversation with Bill and Tara for the moment, his eyes roamed the room and landed on Mulder. His eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, and he slowly stepped on over with an easy gait. Mulder prepared himself for the worst.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and assume my sister brought you along," the man said in greeting, holding out a hand. "I'm Charlie, Dana's kid brother."

 _Kid is right_ , Mulder thought now that he could see Charlie up-close. He had a young face, much more carefree than either of his older siblings. His eyes were bright, almost the same shade of blue as Scully's, and while there was a measure of experience lurking within them, he was still pretty green. Whether for good or ill, he had seen little of the corruption and horrors of the world. Mulder granted it was a more pleasant way to live, but it could be all the more dangerous.

Mulder tried to gauge his age; he looked to be in his late 20's, but Mulder suspected he was actually just shy of 31. Looking at his thin, smooth features reminded Mulder of how much older he was in comparison. He didn't feel any older, though. He was still springy, virile, and as ready for action as ever. He was still set on his continual search for the truth. But he guessed he _looked_ older; maybe his eyes gave him away, unintentionally divulging all the impossibilities he had seen and experiences he had gone through.

But Charlie didn't seem the least bit intimidated by him; he was just curious. He was wondering who the mysterious figure that Scully had unexpectedly brought to a private family function was.

"Fox Mulder," he said. "Scully's childish partner." The quip was trite and probably stupid, but Mulder wanted to make light of the meeting. Charlie's mouth formed into an "o" as he slowly nodded, the name obviously registering for him.

"Ah, so you're Mr. Mulder," Charlie replied, replacing the look of realization with an easy smile. "I've heard about you over the years."

"I'm not sure I want to know what stories you've heard," Mulder returned with a strained smile of his own. He sincerely doubted Charlie only heard the good about him.

"Well," Charlie said with a slight quirk of his head, "I guess I've heard about you from just about everyone. Dana's mentioned you a few times on calls. Mom and Bill have mentioned you. Hell, Melissa even told me about you once." The last comment was said off-hand, very nonchalant, but mention of his sister sobered him up some. The light in his eyes dimmed a bit.

 _Perhaps he's seen a bit more horror than I gave him credit for_ , Mulder thought, remembering that the young man had to suffer through the unexpected deaths of both his father and older sister in a few years' time. And Melissa only died because she was mistaken for Scully. _As much as I don't like Bill, he has his reasons to hate me_. He looked over Charlie's shoulder at the elder Scully brother.

"I only met her a few times," Mulder said, returning his gaze to Charlie and hoping to console him some, "but Melissa was a good woman. She gave me the push I needed once...when I was in a really dark place." Charlie smiled faintly; whether or not Mulder's attempt at commiseration helped, he was thankful.

"She told me you were a bit stuck in your ways," Charlie remarked indifferently. "That you were unwilling to look at the world outside your closed-minded understanding of it." Mulder let out a chuckle, finding the statement too ironic.

"Try telling that to Scully…."

"Telling me what, Mulder?" Scully asked, appearing at his side with her arms customarily crossed in front of her and looking up at him inquisitively. She had temporarily returned to the skeptical partner he knew and worked with on a daily basis. Her eyebrows arched as she awaited his newest hairbrained theory. He couldn't stop himself from grinning down at her.

"Apparently I'm closed-minded." Her sharp eyes turned to her brother, and she pointed a thumb over her shoulder and at Mulder.

"If he's been telling you that, Charlie, don't listen to a word he says." Mulder was prepared to protest his innocence, but thankfully caught himself before he spoke. Scully reached up and wrapped her arms around her brother. "Merry Christmas, Charlie."

"You, too, Dana," he returned. Mulder was glad he hadn't blundered and interrupted the two siblings' greetings.

"Fort Worth treating you well?" she asked, looking her little—albeit taller—brother up and down. He shrugged.

"As well as can be expected." He looked from between her to Mulder at her side. "How's the FBI?" His cool blue eyes returned to her. "Still playing secret agent woman? Have the entire, 'I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you' routine down?" Scully mused to herself for a moment.

"I think I've only used it twice," she answered. Mulder suspected she was joking, but there was something to her demeanor that had him second guessing that assumption.

"Do I want to know, Scully?" he asked. She smirked up at him, her blue eyes teasing.

"What do you think, Mulder?" He raised his arms in mock surrender.

"Consider me appeased. I don't want to know." Scully laughed, and looked between the two men at either side of her.

"Well, I see you two have met, at least." Mulder could sense a mild nervousness about her. She didn't want his and Charlie's relationship to hastily develop into another one like the begrudging civility he shared with Bill—or rather that Bill shared with him. Mulder didn't care one way or the other that Bill disliked him. Scully looped in arm into her brother's and stood at his side, scrutinizing Mulder. "So what do you think?" she asked him. Mulder suddenly felt like some piece of art being admired and gawked at. He wondered if he should strike some sort of pose.

"To be frank," Charlie said, glancing down at his sister, "he's a bit tall for you, Dana." Scully swatted at his arm, hitting it a little harder than expected. Through a laugh, Charlie rubbed the thwacked spot. Mulder couldn't help but chuckle. "Well," Charlie tried again, his laughter abating, "I've only talked to Mr. Mulder for a few minutes. You have to give me more time to get to know him before I come to a deliberation."

"At least you're more easy-going on me than your brother," Mulder remarked unthinkingly. As soon as the words had spilled from his mouth, he regretted them. Thankfully, Bill was across the room and caught up in a conversation with his wife. Scully glanced over her shoulder, also checking that her older brother was out of earshot. Charlie smiled sheepishly, less offended by Mulder's comment and more embarrassed by it.

"Yeah, sorry about Bill, Mr. Mulder. He comes on a bit strong." Mulder shrugged, deciding a noncommittal response was his best option.

"He has his reasons." He began to cross his arms over his chest, feeling the uncomfortable silence begin to settle in when a voice spoke up behind him.

"Ah, you've met Fox," Mrs. Scully said to Charlie, returning from the depths of the house to find the whole of her family loitering in the entrance hall. She lightly set a hand to Mulder's arm for a moment before taking it away. "And yet you forgot to take his coat." She fixed her youngest with a stern but amused stare.

"We got talking," he shrugged. Scully slipped her arm out of her brother's as he proceeded with his duty. "I'll take your coat, Mr. Mulder." Mulder slid off the heavy fabric and handed it over.

"Thanks," he replied. As Charlie stepped over to the coat rack to hang it, Mulder turned to Mrs. Scully. "I could have handled that myself, you know." She waved it off.

"Nonsense, Fox. You're a guest, and I thought I'd raised my children better." She eyed Scully with a stare similar to the one she had given Charlie. Scully raised her hands defensively.

"I'm Mulder's partner, mom. He wouldn't dare relegate me to secretarial duties. Or as the Bureau likes to call them, 'personal assistants.' We made that clear on day one." She glanced up at him for affirmation.

"I'd never dream of it, Scully," he nodded somberly. "Unless it involves getting coffee, of course…." Scully rolled her eyes.

"I can always count on you, Mulder," she sighed. Charlie returned to the clustered group, letting out a small chuckle.

"Looks like you have Mr. Mulder in hand, Dana," he said, clapping her lightly on the back.

"I always think so," she replied, looking at Mulder pointedly, "at least up until the point where he steals my car keys."

"In my defense," Mulder said bracingly, realizing that Scully really wasn't going to let him live that moment down, "you were going to leave." She stared at him incredulously.

"Because you were going to drag me along on a ghost hunt," she accused him, her vocal volume raising some. Bill and Tara abandoned their conversation to look over. Charlie and Mrs. Scully just watched the back and forth between them like they were observing a tennis match.

"A ghost hunt?" Charlie interrupted, looking at his sister quizzically. "You went ghost busting?" By the look on Charlie's face, Mulder could see that "ghost busting" was the furthest thing on his mind when he considered Scully's leisure activities. He was downright stunned, but suddenly a grin spread across his face. "I think I want to hear this story, Dana." Mrs. Scully intervened.

"In a bit, Charlie." Scully looked less than thrilled at the prospect of recounting her and Mulder's midnight outing, and Mrs. Scully was obviously trying to assuage her daughter's frustrations. "Let Dana and Fox get settled." She turned to her daughter. "Why don't you show Fox the guest room?" Scully stared at her mother for a few seconds, took in a deep breath, and nodded. She was happy to have something to do that would get her out of the limelight, albeit briefly.

Mulder decided his best course of action was to keep quiet and do as he was told; Scully would give him hell to pay if he pushed things further. He sidled over to the black briefcase lying on the floor and picked it up. Scully pointed up the stairs and began to lead the way.

"Hold on," a voice called out just as Mulder's foot creaked against the first step. The tone was urgent and alarmed. Mulder turned to look at Bill who was eyeing his younger sister and him suspiciously. His gaze landed on the briefcase held in Mulder's hand. "They're using the guest room?" Bill asked, pointing to the pair.

"Yes," Mrs. Scully admitted. "Because they arrived so late, I invited Dana and Fox to spend the night."

"In the guest room?" Bill stressed again, his features hardening some.

"Yes," Mrs. Scully nodded again. "It's the only bed available." Mulder swept his gaze about the room. None of the others were so disturbed by the news as Bill. Mrs. Scully appeared concerned while Charlie looked mildly confused. Tara held her husband by the arm, as if preventing him from launching himself at Mulder. Mulder was very thankful that Tara was on his side.

"Together?" Bill asked. As if the situation needed to be any more awkward. Tara tugged helplessly against him.

"Mulder and I are adults, Bill," Scully said calmly. Her eyes darted back and forth among the audience in front of her; she was clearly uncomfortable with how the situation had developed. Bill readied himself to rebuke her, but she swiftly cut him off. "It's none of your business," she said sharply with a minute shake of her head.

Mulder's jaw about dropped to the floor. Had Scully— _his_ Scully—actually said that? Actually insinuated that? He glanced to Bill. He had fallen absolutely silent, finally yielding to his wife's pull and conceding.

 _I guess_ this _is Dana_ , Mulder thought. _I need to remember not to get on Scully's bad side._

"Come on, Mulder," Scully whispered, continuing her way up the steps. Mulder followed without hesitation.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _Happy New Year, readers! As an apology for taking so long to get out the last chapter, I wanted to try and get this newest chapter out in a timely manner_ — _and it's fairly long to boot!_

 _I hope you all closed out 2015 happily and in good spirits! Here's to 2016!_

 _A special thanks to all those who read, follow, favorite, review, and otherwise just enjoy this story! I'm writing this hoping to make your day all the better! And another special thanks to ThexInvisiblexGirl for her constant support and continual over-analysis of the series with me!_

* * *

"Scully…."

"I'm fine, Mulder." That reserved, formal tone he was so familiar with. Mulder wondered how long it would be before she—hopefully—opened up to him.

Scully swept down the length of the hall. Mulder trailed after her with the suitcase. He barely had a moment to take in exactly where he was or where they were going. Mrs. Scully's house couldn't be _that_ complicated, though. Scully unexpectedly stopped at an open door and reached in to flip on the lightswitch. Mulder almost barreled into her with his long strides, but caught himself at the last moment.

"The bathroom," she said curtly as he rocked back on his heels, hauling the suitcase up as he quickly righted his balance. Normally at moments like that, she'd fix him with an accusatory look and demand to know why he was stupidly tailing her so closely. And he'd come back with some witty or scandalous one-liner. Scully was not in the mood for routine, though. She flipped off the light, and just as Mulder was about to speak, took off again. Mildly frustrated because he knew she was doing it on purpose, Mulder followed. She swung open a door at the end of the hall. "And here's the guest room." She swept her arm around the room, and Mulder carefully set the suitcase on the carpeted floor.

It was a fairly small bedroom, but it would certainly suit anyone's basic needs. There was a spacious queen bed topped with a plushy, white comforter and a few pillows encased in cream-colored stylized shams. At the foot of the bed frame sat a rather large, vintage trunk, serving as additional storage space for household odds and ends. Mulder wondered if the Scully family of old had used it to emigrate to the country decades before. He had remembered seeing a similar trunk tucked away in the corner of his grandparents' attic when he was a boy—an old keepsake from years long past.

As he continued his scan of the room, he noted a writing desk with a matching chair—more antiques by the look of them—standing beneath a set of double windows. The heavy curtains had been drawn back and the blinds were pulled away, so the crisp natural light of the dying day filtered in. It gave the entire room an eerie, ghostly glow. Mulder looked passed the brilliant light to view the snow-covered backyard and the houses beyond the window.

There was an odd quality to winter: it tended to make everything go still, like time had stopped. Even more than that, Mulder felt like he had entered some wormhole, stepping into the past. Each piece of furniture and memento in the room had a story to tell, and Mulder found himself curious about them. He never took Mrs. Scully to be one to keep useless artifacts; she kept items that had personal significance either to her or her family history, and the guest room was just brimming with a sense of history.

He caught sight of a lone dressing standing on the opposite side of the room, a faint covering of dust along its top. Aside from an old landscape painting hanging above it, it was the only piece of furniture against the otherwise bare wall. So it tended to stand out. Mulder suspected it was never used anymore, at least according to its purpose. House guests would rather live out of a suitcase; that required less effort to settle in, and nothing would be easily forgotten upon packing up.

And that was the way of life that was becoming increasingly popular. People had little patience; they saw no benefit in stopping their day-to-day activities to take in their surroundings and just reflect. They were constantly on the move, unable to devote perceived "wasted" time to menial, unnecessary tasks like actually noticing an old piece of furniture or putting away a small set of clothes. In that way, they lost out on an important element of the world: the sense of history that was constantly flowing around them.

As always, Scully and he were the exception to that rule. Their lives were steeped in history—whether their own histories or those forgotten pasts they dug into while unearthing X-Files. While constantly on the move from destination to destination, they were required to completely settle into a new location no matter how brief their stay; it was part of the job. Suits had to be hung in the closet; documents, photos, and files were strewn on the bedspread; remains of takeout cartons were tucked into unused corners of TV stands and bedside tables. Scully usually whipped out her laptop and patched into the FBI network or typed up a field report. When investigating, they delved into old medical records and personnel files, often visiting libraries or local federal buildings for further information and leads.

Perhaps that's why Mulder was so unconsciously aware of the world around him. He had to be. He was always taking in the little details whether they were important factors to a case or just there to be observed. And the lone dresser pressed flush up against the wall was one of those oft-forgotten time capsules, seeing so much of history and likely containing so much of history in its now-dusty drawers—history now forgotten and seeming unimportant because of its seemingly insignificant impact on modern day-to-day life.

But Mrs. Scully saw the significance, just like he did; it was the only reason she would keep the creaky, inessential piece of furniture around. It was part of her history, and thereby part of her family, and therefore important to her. Perhaps she had stowed away important keepsakes in its long-forgotten drawers: old photo albums or long-forgotten school projects from when Scully and her siblings were in grade school, souvenirs and knickknacks from family vacations, files and certificates listing Captain Scully's commendations during his years with the Navy.

And because it all related to Scully—had some bearing on her whether she realized it or not, Mulder found it all to be of the utmost importance. In a certain sense, he was looking at the whole of Scully's life as it went back through the generations. And to think every decision, every meeting or conversation in the history of her ancestors had somehow led to her very existence and to that very moment. If anything, he should be grateful to the slow passage of time for what it had gifted him.

"Scully..." he voiced aloud, much softer and more intimate this time. His unexpected tone surprised her, and she begrudgingly raised her head to meet his eyes.

"What?" she asked flatly. She was trying her hardest to hide any possible emotion that might be a giveaway to her current mental state. To her, emotion meant weakness, and weakness would be interpreted as incompetence. But Mulder didn't see it that way; emotions—and the reactions accompanying them—were what made them human.

In truth, he had been waiting for Scully's carefully constructed countenance to crack at one point or another. It was bound to happen given the anniversaries associated with the Scully family and Christmas time: Captain Scully's death, Emily's discovery and loss. But it was so soon. They had barely been let in the front door. Was she really standing on that shaky of a foundation? Had Bill's tactless reprimands really driven her to her breaking point already?

"What happened?" Mulder didn't think that was the absolute right thing to say, but he had to start somewhere. Scully turned away from him. She was debating whether or not to talk. Mulder knew better than to push her; she was always cautious and fearful when it came to coming out of her shell. She feared the day when Mulder's opinion of her might change—when he would see her as a fragile, defective individual that had no place as his partner. She tucked some of her red hair behind an ear. The remainder of it swung freely around her face, somewhat obscuring Mulder's view of her.

"Sometimes Bill gets to me," she admitted. Her blue eyes flashed up to his. "He's my big brother and he loves me, and I know that." The conviction in her voice strengthened as she hammered home the last point. Mulder wasn't meant to question that. He nodded his agreement, and she continued in a softened tone. "But sometimes it feels like he's pushing me down a path I don't want."

"So don't let him," Mulder said simply, realizing she wasn't giving him the whole truth. Her minor break from decorum went deeper than pent up frustrations at Bill. Still, if she wanted to keep some of her thoughts to herself, he'd allow her. It wasn't his place to pry. "Choose your own path."

"I try," Scully nodded, now looking him firmly in the eyes. "He doesn't get it, though. He won't let me be." Mulder smiled sympathetically and brushed her remaining hair behind her ear. It allowed him a better look at her. She looked at him imploringly, silently requesting some magical answer.

"Don't let him take control." Scully chuckled darkly.

"You think you'd be here if I did?" she asked. "If he could, Bill would throw you out that front door right now."

"But he won't," Mulder reassured her, bending nearer to emphasize the point.

Like Scully, he couldn't always stand Bill and his brash ways, but he understood where the guy was coming from. His father, the family patriarch, had died, and it was up to him to step up and take charge, or at least that's what he believed. But with everyone grown to adulthood and living lives of their own, they didn't need a father figure or someone to look to for guidance anymore. Especially from someone who had grown up alongside them. Despite all his efforts, Bill would never be able to fill his father's shoes. He didn't have Captain Scully's experiences and he wouldn't be able to dole out the advice Scully or Charlie might have asked of their father.

But Bill thought such actions were necessary to keep the family together and functioning. After all the traumatic events they had suffered from the unexpected deaths of Captain Scully and Melissa, anyone could make that mistake. Bill had to let go of his father, though. Attempting to assume the role and responsibilities of the family patriarch would only cause further hurt and estrangement between the family members that were left. And he had just felt that first sting from Scully. Hopefully that was all he needed to snap him back to reality.

"Bill won't toss you out only because my mom is standing guard over the door," Scully rationalized.

"Scully," Mulder said, drawing her to look at him again, "Bill wouldn't throw me out because I wouldn't let him. At least as long as you wanted me here." Mulder opted for gentle honesty, and he let the words sink in for a moment. Her brows knit together in confusion.

"What?" she asked. Mulder smiled lightly.

"I won't stand for your brother trying to make your choices." He chuckled to himself before continuing. "I know half the time I'm trying to convince you to believe in the nature of extreme possibilities, but I wouldn't want you to believe just because I said so. If you learn to believe, I want that to be by your own volition." He paused. "So if Bill were to try and legitimately force you down a path you didn't want, I wouldn't stand for it." Scully's eyebrows shot upward as the full weight of his words registered.

"Are you offering to beat up my brother like in some stupid schoolyard fight?" The question was mostly rhetorical. Scully was simultaneously sarcastic and stunned by his admission, but also questioning if he just wanted an excuse to get into a pissing match with Bill. It was a valid query given their rocky history. Mulder grinned.

"Would you be more impressed if I did?"

"Beat up my brother? No. I'd rather not have to reset broken bones." She smirked in return. Mulder wondered whose bones she was referring to.

"You wouldn't find it just a bit alluring?" he pressed, slipping on an enigmatic smile.

"There is nothing remotely alluring about the medical profession, Mulder." Scully was ever pragmatic, especially in those moments when he wished she would just go along with him. But then that wouldn't be Scully.

As always eventually happened, the thrill was gone for him. Scully had squashed his fun with her relentless rationality, and he was forced to return to banal, droll topics if only to maintain conversation. He looked over her shoulder at the expansive bed behind her, suddenly wishing he could just fall into it and pass out for a few hours. Even with his insomnia, he had too little sleep the night before.

"So what side of the bed do you want?" he suddenly asked. "Unless you're reconsidering the arrangement." His tone was taunting, and Scully sensed it right away. She looked over her shoulder for a moment before returning to him, her expression exceedingly suspicious.

"No…" she said slowly. "I'll go along with it." He was convinced that she meant it, too. Normally she preferred to keep things professional and proper, but then again, that was usually when they were on the clock. "But why are you, Mulder?" He shrugged with exaggerated innocence.

"Can't two partners bunk together without it being indicative of any sordid affair?" She nodded.

"Yes…." She drew out the length of the single-syllable word. "But we both agreed you'd rather take a chair." She gestured behind him, and Mulder turned. In his overview of the room, he had missed a worn out lounge chair with a standing reading lamp poised behind it. Despite its ragged appearance, the chair did look fairly comfortable. He could easily pass out on it for a couple hours. "What changed your mind?" Scully asked, obviously fishing for an answer to the mystery of why Mulder had accepted her mother's offer.

Mulder's mind whirred as he considered the truth, as well as the myriad of possible answers he could give. His hand itched at his side and he became stupefyingly aware that he and Scully were completely alone in a bedroom with little chance of any possible interruption. That was a dangerous thought.

Normally there was a case or an emergency constantly demanding their attention. He and Scully were always working against some phantom clock while under pressure. They hadn't really had a moment alone—like this, at least—since Scully had told him of her reassignment to Salt Lake City.

At his persistent silence, Scully stared at him, taking the slightest step forward as her brow furrowed in worry. The synapses in Mulder's brain shot off as he realized she was preparing to spring to action. He snapped himself out of his self-induced stupor and smiled briefly, stopping Scully in her tracks with his sudden shift in mood.

"I didn't want to seem an ungrateful guest," he replied once he had a moment to regain his focus and moralistic sense. Even if he did want to correct the mistake of the moment between the two of them in his apartment hallway, now was hardly the time. Scully's family were just feet from them. "Your mom seemed insistent." Scully considered him, crossing her arms in front of her.

"She wouldn't have insisted had she known you'd be uncomfortable," she clarified, giving him the option of graciously bowing out of the arrangement should he want to. "If you'd like, you can take the chair." She pointed out the lounge chair behind him. He opened his arms in front of him.

"Do I look uncomfortable?" he asked with a lackadaisical smile. She eyed him for a moment more then shrugged.

"I'll take your word for it, Mulder." While she had agreed to it, Mulder wasn't sure that she had completely believed him. In fact, he was certain she was still suspicious. There was rarely a time when Scully took his opinions and motives for what they were since he always seemed to drag the two of them into the latest government conspiracy. Mulder couldn't help that he was so often right about such things. Letting the matter drop, Scully beckoned for the suitcase. "Bring that over here." He obliged, hauling the case up onto the comforter.

"You know there's still the problem of me being without clothes," he remarked, turning to his partner with a mischievous glance. "Unless you prefer sleeping in the buff?" This time his smile was sly and suggestive.

"No, Mulder," she said simply. "We'll both be wearing clothes." She smirked at him, almost daring him to contradict her. Mulder knew that was going to be her answer, but he couldn't pass up the chance of asking her.

He chuckled to himself, wondering exactly what he was going to do for bed that night, as well as the following morning. Mrs. Scully had claimed that he'd be able to borrow a shirt from Bill or Charlie, but he didn't really want to go begging for an ill-fitting shirt. It just didn't feel appropriate.

He wasn't opposed to wearing the same set of clothes two days in a row, even overnight. He had done so before on stakeouts and other rush jobs, but this was different. Mulder was with Scully's family and was expected to look presentable. If he decided to sleep in his jeans and undershirt, he'd need to find a new shirt for tomorrow. If he planned to wear the same ensemble tomorrow, he'd have to find something else to wear for the night. He couldn't sleep in just his boxers if he was sharing the bed with Scully.

As much as he hated to admit it, Mulder came to the same undesirable conclusion in either case: he'd have to borrow something from one of Scully's brothers. He frowned, staring down at the little, black suitcase.

"Open it," Scully ordered. Mulder slowly turned to look at her, his expression one of stunned silence. What was she playing at? She _wanted_ him to go through her personal belongings?

"Is this some sort of trick?" he questioned warily. She rolled her eyes.

"Just open it," she repeated. Still watching her out of the corner of his eye, Mulder did as he was told. He ran the zipper along the edge of the case, and flipped back the top cautiously. Not in the least bit surprised, he was met with a large pile of clothes, though nothing frilly and none of Scully's undergarments. She'd smartly buried those in the depths of the suitcase. Scully exhaled at his side, likely suspecting where his mind had wandered to. "Look on the left side." With a cursory glance at her, he did so, carefully pawing through that part of the pile.

There were men's clothes. Some boxers, a few pairs of rolled-up socks, two undershirts, a gray button-down, a white t-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and some gray sweats. He tugged at the tag of the button-down shirt.

"It's my size," he said in mild surprise. He pulled out the pair of jeans, held them up to his lanky frame, then looked at the clothing tag there. "These are, too." Mulder looked over at his partner questioningly.

"They're new and washed, but never worn," she said vaguely. Scully had gone out and bought clothes for him? "Check the inside pocket," she continued, refraining from answering his unspoken questions. He pulled the suitcase top back toward him and unzipped the interior pocket. He found a pair of sneakers and immediately pulled at the tongue of one of them.

"My size again," he said, staring up at her. He set down the shoe, continuing to watch his partner. "Scully, how do you know my size? For _everything_?" She smirked lightly, clearly enjoying the slight advantage she had over him.

"I might have looked through some of your clothes at your apartment while you were in the other room." Mulder looked at her in mock accusation.

"Scully..." he said, smiling as the name rolled off his tongue. He would never have expected it of her. But she didn't look in the least bit embarrassed. She shrugged.

"I figured I should be prepared. We've both had moments where we get into scrapes and come out without anything to wear, so I thought I should keep some clothes for both of us in case something happens again."

Mulder thought back to when he had rescued Scully from Antarctica just a few months earlier. Those had been extreme circumstances, but they had certainly fit the bill. Mulder was just thankful that he had thought to wear extra layers to combat the frigid arctic weather. He was able to relinquish his heavy winter coat and snowpants to Scully without an absolute fear of freezing to death himself. And the winter wear had certainly saved Scully's life; had he tried to save her without any form of physical protection, she likely would have succumbed to hypothermia in mere minutes.

The thought of Scully in that incubation pod chilled him to the bone. Her wide, terrified eyes staring out through the thick glass. The umbilical-cord-like respiration tube snaking from her open mouth. Then there was her chilled flesh as he hastily wrapped her in his coat and the stringy, almost frozen tendrils of her hair. She didn't remember much of the event, thankfully. She remembered talking in his hallway, the bee sting, her initial reaction to the virus, then there was a long period where she blacked out or her recollection became foggy. She recalled Mulder's face a few inches from hers, the alarmed look in his eyes; she remembered crawling through vents and being outdoors, hugging an unconscious Mulder on the precipice of some sheer cliffside in the snow. She remembered a helicopter coming out of nowhere.

Mulder's own memory blacked out after seeing a UFO rise out of the icy cavern behind them before drifting over them and out of sight. That image was practically burned into his brain, though Scully had no recollection of such an event ever occurring.

Mulder stared at his partner, unsure what answer to give to her surprising level of consideration. He was still wrapped up in thoughts of the past. He had been so close to losing her, but miraculously he hadn't. And then when he pushed for her to leave him for her own well-being—insisting that she go live a life and be a doctor—she stubbornly didn't.

"Thanks, Scully," was all he said.

"Don't think I did it just for you, Mulder," she returned with a playful flash of a smile. "Now I don't have to spend the night with your incessant complaints about having to ask Bill or Charlie for a set of clothes tomorrow." Mulder smirked; he wouldn't have been quite _that_ bad.

"I should've guessed there was an ulterior motive," he murmured, replacing the clothes he had removed and zipping the suitcase closed.

"Uh-huh," she said skeptically. "Now, come on, Mulder," She tugged once at his arm. "Let's get back downstairs."

* * *

Mulder followed Scully through the open archway leading to Mrs. Scully's living room. As he rounded the corner into the room, he caught sight of an enormous Christmas tree, just over seven feet tall by his estimates. Bright, multi-colored lights illuminated the branches and the myriad of Christmas ornaments. In the overwhelming florescent glow, he could barely make out all the various baubles and figurines. Some sparkled brilliantly, others blended into hidden gaps between branches. The only figure he could really make out was the antique-looking angel that topped the tree, a white bulb placed purposefully behind her to cast her in an ethereal glow.

Mulder was far from religious, but it was a beautiful sight. It reminded him of Christmases long past with his family, when Samantha was still around.

He turned to take in the rest of the room; the majority of the Scully family was gathered together there: Bill and Charlie, and little Matthew squirming in his father's lap. Mrs. Scully and Tara were nowhere to be found, though. Mulder smiled in greeting to the brothers. Only Charlie silently acknowledged him; Bill was concentrating on his younger sister as he tightly held his fidgeting son.

"Mom outdid herself," Scully said with a glance over to her brothers. She stepped up to the tree and cradled an ornament delicately in her hand—a little, silver harp.

"She wanted to do something nice since the whole family was going to be together," Bill replied, looking down as Matthew tugged fruitlessly at his thumb, trying to break free of his father's grasp. His tone was more reserved than normal; perhaps he was embarrassed by the minor scene he had created earlier.

"I told her it wasn't necessary," Charlie added. "It just makes more work for her to clean up afterward." He and Bill each occupied an armchair—another matching set—situated on either side of a little end table with a lit lamp sitting on top. The brothers had opted against turning on the glaring ceiling light in favor of the more festive mood lighting of the tree and few other standing lamps. Charlie's fingers lightly clung to the neck of a beer bottle as he swung it loosely in the air. A similar bottle sat on a coaster next to Bill.

"Not going to offer to help clean up before you fly back out?" Scully asked, quirking an eyebrow at her younger brother. Charlie shrugged.

"I have a couple more days here before I'm due back. I guess I could." Scully rolled her eyes.

"How chivalrous…" she said sarcastically, walking over to a nearby couch, sitting down, and tucking her legs underneath her. Seeing no other available seating, Mulder followed, sitting on the side opposite Scully which unfortunately was also the side nearest to Bill—just next to him, in fact. Thankfully, he was too distracted by his son to give Mulder much thought. Charlie took a swig from his beer, draining it of its final drops. "Where's Tara?" Scully asked, looking around the room.

"Helping mom in the kitchen," Bill answered, continuing to avoid his sister's eyes. Scully made to sit up.

"I guess I should—" Bill raised a hand to stop her and finally looked her way. His ice blue eyes were apologetic. Mulder suspected he was more concerned with having upset Scully than how tasteless his words to her were in the first place. Bill still thought he was in his right to be the "man of the house," and that he knew best for everybody. Scully settled back down in her seat, albeit a bit straight-backed.

"Mom said that when you and Mr. Mulder came down, you were supposed to sit down and relax." Mulder noticed Bill's customary use of his formal name. It was one of his coping mechanisms, a way in which he could distance himself from his sister's poisonous, meddlesome partner. Scully sighed. At first, Mulder thought she was agitated on _his_ behalf.

"She's only saying that because we got here late," Scully said instead. "I'm fine to be put to work." She moved to stand up again. This time Charlie spoke out.

"Mom wanted you to sit," he reiterated calmly. "So you sit down, Dana, and let me get you something to drink." He held up the empty beer bottle in his hand as he stood. "Bill?" he asked, looking to his older brother. Bill tore his eyes from his son and to the bottle sitting at his side.

"I'm good. Still have about half of it left." He focused on his brother. "Honestly, Charlie, you have no idea how much less I drink since this guy came along." He pointed at Matthew even while the tyke had a hand wrapped around his father's finger. Charlie smiled amusedly.

"I would've thought you'd drink more. You need something to help you pass out from the little guy crying all night." He gestured to his nephew.

"Nah, he's not that bad," Bill refuted. "Have you heard a peep out of him since we've been here?"

"Only the first night really," Charlie admitted with a slow nod.

"It was a new place and a new bed," Bill explained. "He was a bit anxious." He looked back down at his son, promptly ignoring the rest of the room once more. Bill was feeling incredibly uncomfortable, possibly due to Mulder's presence, possibly due to how Scully had left him earlier. It would take a little time for him to get over it. Charlie, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit unnerved by his siblings' spat.

"So, Mr. Mulder," he said turning to him with a cheery look, "what can I get you?" He helpfully spun the bottle in his hand so Mulder could see the label. Shiner Bock. Mulder wasn't familiar with the brand.

"That's fine," Mulder said with a nod, noting it looked like a dark beer. He wasn't about to be picky and he tended to like lagers for the most part. "And uh…'Fox' is fine, too." Out of the corner his eye, he noticed Scully turn to stare at him. He smiled lightly at her, hoping to assuage her confusion and curiosity. She didn't look the least bit placated by the gesture, but thankfully, Charlie spoke up again.

"You know it?" he asked with wide eyes, shaking the bottle in his hand. There was a glint of hope in his eyes, like he would be overjoyed at the prospect of someone else knowing his favorite brew.

"No," Mulder replied fluidly. "I've never had it." The light in Charlie's eyes dimmed some, but he smiled all the same.

"I thought maybe you might have with how often you and Dana are on the road. It's from a little town called Shiner, Texas—about four hours away from the base. Can't get it anywhere else yet, so you're in for a treat!" Charlie turned to his sister. "And Dana? What do you want?" She scrutinized the space and espied a small glass of red wine sitting beside Mulder.

"I'm guessing that's Tara's glass?" she asked aloud. Bill looked over, following his sister's gaze.

"Yeah, it's a Pinot Noir we brought from back home. We were supposed to have it with dinner, but she wanted a glass early." Bill shrugged, unable to even attempt to explain the whims of his wife.

"Well, if you're not opposed—" Scully nodded to the glass. He shrugged again.

"Fine by me, but..." He looked to his brother, ensuring he understood his unspoken orders.

"I'll check with Tara," he nodded agreeably. "I'm sure she'll be fine with it, though." Scully smiled.

"If she's not, then just pour me whatever's in the fridge." Charlie waved off the comment as he walked out of the room. A silence settled that was only broken by the murmurings and cooings of Matthew as he played in his father's lap. Scully reclined back in her seat and looked up at the tree. Mulder was left to his own thoughts.

The family was very low-key and casual—excluding Bill and his moodiness. Mulder wasn't entirely sure what else he had expected. He just found it weird to see Scully in such an environment, but there had to be moments when she would just let loose and relax. Everyone needed a break from the stresses of reality. Mulder liked to play basketball or go for a run. But Scully—he had no idea what Scully liked to do in her sparse spare time...except read. He _knew_ she liked to read. On his regular visits to her apartment, he'd usually find a new library book lying around. Sometimes she'd bring a paperback onto flights to page through after they had overviewed case details.

He wondered if he should have gotten her a book for Christmas. It might have been a bit old hat, but at least it would have been something he knew she would appreciate. She claimed she was pleased with the little telescope he had bought, but even he had to admit, it was an oddgift. What use would she have for a little piece of plastic, after all? It would just sit on a shelf or in storage collecting dust until God-knows-when.

Perhaps there was some secondary gift he could get her that was more traditional. It didn't necessarily have to be for Christmas; maybe it could be a birthday gift. Just something she might authentically enjoy. His eyes roved up the length of the tree before roaming downward and settling on her.

Scully had kicked off her squat, boxy heels, and her legs were folded comfortably underneath her. Mulder was once again struck by how toned her body was. Her business suits—while formal and appropriate for their work environment—typically encapsulated her in a ream of fabric. Sitting in her dress-casual slacks and cardigan, though, he could make out every contour of her figure. Her form was taut and lithe. But her small frame was deceptive. Scully could pack quite a punch when she needed to.

Mulder tried to recall if he had ever seen Scully clobber someone. How strong of a right hook did she _really_ have? He remembered hearing that Skinner liked to box in his free time. The image of Scully and Skinner duking it out in the ring made him laugh to himself. _That_ would be a sight. He had already seen Skinner get his ass handed to him by Scully when they were caught in a Mexican standoff; he wouldn't be the least bit surprised of Scully whooped him in the ring, too. She was just that kind of woman; never to be underestimated.

Ultimately, the idea of joining Scully during an exercise regimen intrigued him. He'd rather stay away from the gyms; they were better for exercising alone unless you planned on lifting weights and needed a spotter. But a jog was always good for a pair.

Mulder wondered why he had never thought to invite Scully to go running with him before. Granted, they lived twenty minutes away from each other, but that shouldn't be much of a hindrance. There were plenty of places where they could easily meet up in between and go for a jog. He considered Anacostia Park—a thin strip of green that ran along the bank of the Anacostia River. It wasn't the prettiest location, but there was as bike path that they could follow, and he preferred it immensely to East Potomac Park, the little peninsula that jutted out into the Georgetown Channel. He hated fussing with the entitled golfers that frequented the golf course there. Plus, it was too near the hubbub of central Washington, D.C.—the White House and all the monuments and tourist traps. At least Anacostia Park was further away, a little more isolated from the hustle and bustle.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea pleased him. It would be a nice change of pace for Scully and him to do something together as friends that didn't include the involvement of work or family. Something just between the two of them. Once the snow cleared and the weather warmed up, Mulder resolved to ask Scully to join him for a jog. Maybe afterwards they could grab lunch—his treat, of course.

Scully suddenly became aware of a set of eyes on her and turned, her brows arching upward as she caught Mulder's gaze. He smiled contentedly back. There was a cough from behind him, and a voice spoke up. It was Bill.

"How's the guest room look?" he asked, looking cautiously between the pair of them. Even while attempting to make small-talk, he couldn't keep the malicious tone from his voice. "Comfortable enough for the two of you?" Scully looked at him agitatedly. That was not the subject she had wanted to broach once she and her brother had begun speaking again.

"You _do_ realize that Mulder and I are just partners?" she said sternly. With his constant allusions and asides, Bill was obviously assuming they were more involved than they actually were. Like Maurice and Lyda the night before, he couldn't get it through his thick skull that they weren't lovers. Scully glanced over at her partner. "And if Mulder were to try anything, I'm pretty sure I could handle him." Her expression was teasing, but Mulder sensed there was a nugget of truth to her words.

"There is a ferocity to your sister that I would never want to come face-to-face with," he admitted to Bill, also somewhat teasing. Scully looked the furthest thing from ferocious. She was a petite redhead in a well-tailored suit, but she was as competent as the biggest and burliest of agents. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and an acute understanding of human anatomy. She knew _exactly_ where to hit someone where it hurt.

 _And_ that's _why she'd have a chance at taking down Skinner_ , Mulder added silently to himself, again musing on the hypothetical boxing match between his partner and his boss.

"I don't think you've even seen me furious, Mulder," Scully commented with a smirk.

"Maybe not," Mulder shrugged, "but I've seen the look in your eye when you're looking down the sights of your gun. There's an unwavering confidence in your abilities. You know you won't miss." The compliment came easy. She ducked her head and smiled embarrassedly, unused to the praise.

"How do you know the look in her eye?" Bill asked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to rationalize Mulder's statement. "I'd think if you two are going into a hot zone, you'd be more concerned with looking out for the culprit you hope to catch."

"Easy," Mulder grinned, surprised that Bill had caught the small flaw in his telling, "I remember all the times Scully's looked at me down her gun sights." He jerked his head to his partner, and Scully stared at him wide-eyed. If looks could kill…. Bill's gaze flashed over to his sister, and she hastily made an attempt to explain herself.

"Mulder and I have investigated cases that affect our cognizant abilities. Increased instances of paranoia, for example. Under those very specific circumstances, yes, we have pulled our weapons on one another." Bill's initial alarm at his sister's nerve to threaten her partner morphed into discontent that nothing had become of it.

"Too bad you didn't shoot him when you had the chance," he murmured quietly, more to himself than the room as a whole.

"Funny you should say that..." Mulder muttered leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. Scully jumped to defend herself.

"I did not shoot you!"

"Yes, you did," Mulder laughed. "In 1995 in the left shoulder." He pointed out the location where the bullet had torn through him. Though the wound had healed cleanly thanks to Scully's expert care, there was still some scar tissue remaining.

"You actually shot him?" Bill looked stunned.

"He was about to do something stupid," she said in exasperation. "He was about to put his career with the Bureau _and_ his life at risk." Bill's gaze shifted to Mulder, looking for confirmation. He nodded reluctantly.

"She's right," he smiled sheepishly, wondering how much hell he was going to pay for insinuating that his partner had shot him because of some personal grievance or vendetta. The very least he could do was clarify the situation and hope that Scully wouldn't get on his case too badly. "I'd been under the effects of a chemical that was increasing my levels of paranoia and aggression."

"Paranoia is a thing with you, isn't it, Mr. Mulder?" Bill said warily, his grip on his son tightening some as if he were afraid Mulder was going to snatch the little boy from his lap and go sprinting off into the night. Mulder made sure to keep his hands to himself; he didn't need to give Bill further reason to try and press charges against him for some trumped up felony.

"You're just figuring out that now?" Scully asked dubiously.

"What's going on?" Charlie interrupted, weaving into the room with a pair of open, chilled beer bottles and a glass of wine. "I could hear you down the hall." He looked between the three of them.

"Mr. Mulder—"

"'Fox,'" Scully corrected sharply as she shot a look at Mulder. She was clearly miffed at him, and he couldn't really blame her. Not looking to make amends in front of an audience, Mulder shrugged. He would make it up to her later.

"Uh, Fox…" Bill rectified awkwardly. Unlike with Mrs. Scully or Tara, the name sounded so clumsy coming from him. Mulder was reminded of how he hated his first name. No wonder he had insisted that Scully call him "Mulder." "He was talking about one time Dana shot him." Charlie handed out the drinks then gestured to Mulder with his beer.

"You shot him?"

"For good reason," Scully persisted.

"What did he do?" Charlie about laughed and fell back into his chair. No doubt he thought Mulder had made some sexist or misogynistic comment that was sure to set Scully off.

"He almost got himself killed." The youngest Scully looked at his sister as if she'd started speaking a dead language.

"And shooting him is the solution to that? You'd think that would be a bit counterproductive." Charlie took a drink of his beer and exchanged looks with his brother. Bill was obviously just as baffled.

"I disarmed him," Scully clarified, sipping at her wine. She glanced at Mulder, looking for input. He had gotten her into that mess; she expected him to get her out.

"I'd been about to kill a man while under the influence of a toxic substance," he explained, refraining from going into the details about his father's murder and Alex Krycek's involvement. The story wasn't meant to be a downer, and those elements would definitely bring down the mood. "Scully did what she had to do to stop me." Scully quirked an eyebrow at him.

"And then I went a few steps further: I made sure he was safely out of danger, that he was off the effects of the compound, and that his shoulder healed properly." Mulder grinned. He hadn't forgotten everything Scully had done for him on that occasion, but he couldn't help toying with her in front of her family.

"I have the scar to prove it," Mulder added, tugging at the shoulder of his sweater. "I guess it's a good thing that your sister is such a lousy shot." Mulder raised his beer and took a drink. It was frothy and rich, maltier than he was used to, but absolutely full of flavor. Charlie had good taste.

"Be careful, Mulder," Scully warned teasingly. "Next time you might not be so lucky." Charlie chuckled; Bill even offered a grim, tight-lipped smile. He was probably silently wishing Scully had fatally wounded her partner instead.

"You mean last night doesn't count?" Mulder prompted. Bill snapped to attention.

"Last night?"

"You mean doing your ghostbusting adventure?" Charlie asked curiously, leaning forward in his chair.

"I don't know what that was last night, Mulder," Scully answered, temporarily ignoring her siblings, "but I didn't shoot you."

"But I was shot," Mulder stressed, pointing out where the entry wound had been. "You saw the blood."

"Neither of our weapons were discharged," Scully reminded him. "We both agreed it was all in our head."

"You _really_ think it was just a psychological breakdown?" he asked her pointedly. He was waiting to hear her rationale for the entire affair.

"It's like I said when we got to the house," she replied after a drink of wine. "Ghost stories and spooky settings trigger innate fear responses within us because of the prevalence of horror in the media. Scary movies, Stephen King books. One look at that house, and you and I were naturally inclined to let our imaginations get away from us." Mulder loved how earnestly she was trying to rationalize away the evening's events, but he didn't buy it for one second.

"Mistaking a shadowy piece of furniture for a person's silhouette is one thing, Scully," he chuckled. "But having a pair of bodies disappear before our eyes? Feeling the impact of being shot in the chest and seeing the blood trickle out? Those aren't things I'd just make up."

"Our minds can be tricked, Mulder," she said simply. "We can be made to see what people want us to see." Charlie looked between the two of them.

"You two are doing on this purpose," he accused half-heartedly. "Are you guys _not_ going to tell us what happened?" He looked to Bill to back him up.

"All I've picked up is something about more gunshot wounds," he shrugged then looked at his sister. "Frankly, if this is your life, Dana, I don't think I want to know the whole of it." He grimaced. "Too many near-death experiences." Scully looked sympathetically at her brother and shuffled over nearer to Mulder on the couch. She reached out and placed a hand on Bill's knee.

"I know you worry," she said quietly, "but this is the life I chose."

Mulder quickly realized he was about to intrude on a family moment. Scully and Bill really needed a moment alone to try and work out the points of contention between them. Without much thought, he picked up his beer and sidled away from the Scully's, heading over to the tree. As he passed Charlie, he leaned forward.

"I'll try to get Scully to talk over dinner," he whispered. Charlie smiled amusedly.

"Good luck," he murmured as he raised his beer to his lips. "Dana can be stubborn."

"Don't I know it?" Mulder grinned.

* * *

Casually sipping at his beer, Mulder wandered around the circumference of the tree. He had been right in his estimate; it was somewhere over seven feet tall. Mulder's height came to six feet, and the tree was over a head higher than him. It had a plump base; plenty of space to stash away the weightier ornaments among the sparse branches. The greenery of the pine needles only increased as he looked higher up the tree; the branches crowded together more among the Christmas lights. Nooks and crannies had to be found to house special ornaments: a slew of little, golden bells, a few handmade pieces from the Scully children's childhood, different colored orbs. He saw some gold ones and red ones. A few blue ones were hidden here and there.

He looked up into the higher branches, and a specific ornament stood out. A little, origami figure hung by a gold string. The talk between Scully and her brothers had subsided, so Mulder knew it was safe to speak up.

"Who's the origami expert?" Mulder asked, reaching up to delicately handle the little piece. It looked fairly complicated to make. The design and coloring made the subject unmistakable: a brown bear standing on all fours. Carefully made creases denoted where the animal's ears, eyes, and muzzle were. A stub of paper at the rump signified the tail.

"Ahab," Scully replied from the couch as she set down her wine. "During one of his tours, he met a colleague who taught him." She stood to join him. "He developed a knack for it."

"Went all out, too," Charlie added as he set down his beer. "When he got home, he'd check out all sorts of origami books and bought the special folding paper. He said he wanted to share his gift with us, so when we were kids, he told each of us to pick a figure we liked out of one of his books and helped us make them." Mulder nodded, looking back at the little icon on the tree with renewed interest.

"So there's one here for each of you, " he reasoned.

"That one's Bill's," Charlie said, pointing at the one Mulder held. Mulder glanced over to the burly man with an inquisitive gaze. It was plain as day that while he had settled things with Scully, Bill still took issue with Mulder. He frowned at the agent.

"I was a traditionalist even as a kid," he shrugged.

"But why a bear?" Mulder asked, thinking it likely had something to do with the man's burly build or a favorite sports team as a kid. Bill looked him in the eyes.

"I liked bears. They aren't naturally aggressive, but they're survivors. Smart enough to realize when it's time to take a risk and incredibly protective of their young. They're 'good' creatures, I guess you could say." Mulder was mildly surprised at the depth to Bill's answer. He had expected a grunted one-word response.

"I thought it was because of that stuffed bear you had as a kid," Charlie teased with a sly grin. Bill glared, but didn't respond. He settled Matthew more comfortably on his lap. The one year-old was quickly falling asleep, and Bill didn't want to risk waking his son with sudden loud noises. Mulder leaned into Scully.

"Seems like Bill is more bear-like than I would have thought," he said low enough so only she would hear.

"Shut up, Mulder," she chuckled. "I guess it teaches you to not get on his bad side."

"Too late," Mulder grinned.

"That one over there is Melissa's," Charlie noted, pointing to the other side of the tree. Mulder skirted around it, scanning up and down the branches. "A little lower," Charlie directed. Mulder finally caught sight of the little red piece.

"A crane?" he remarked.

"Melissa always liked elegant creatures," Scully explained as she rounded the tree. "Birds especially. She always called it a swan, though."

"A red swan," Mulder clarified. Scully smirked.

"She was always proud of her hair." Mulder eyed his partner, staring at her own fiery-red locks. Scully chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Don't forget this isn't my natural color, Mulder." He nodded.

"But it suits you."

"Not me, though, huh?" Charlie interjected with a mischievous grin. Bill glowered at him. If he didn't like Mulder to begin with, he especially didn't like it when Mulder was flirting with his little sister, and Charlie was only making the situation worse in his eyes.

"Maybe if you grew it out," Mulder offered, rocking his head from side to side as he feigned indecision.

"Ha!" Charlie laughed loudly. Bill thwacked him once on the shoulder

"Charlie!" he hissed, gesturing to his son. Matthew wriggled around for a few seconds before settling in again.

"Sorry," Charlie apologized, immediately lowering his voice as he returned to Mulder. "Dad would've killed me if I'd tried to grow out my hair as a kid! Always had to be sharp and ship-shape."

"And I think we're the better for it," Bill said haughtily. He couldn't accept even the smallest slight against his father.

"The Scully guys certainly are," Charlie agreed with a nod before turning on his sister. "I can't say about the women. You and Melissa were always a little out there, Dana."

"That's what we got for being stuck with you two," Scully countered teasingly. "While you guys were falling in line, we were out making names for ourselves."

"Like 'Special Agent'?" asked Mulder with a grin. "Or did you mean 'Mrs. Spooky'?" Scully stared pointedly at her partner, managing to keep a stern expression, but there was a spark of mirth in her eyes. While neither of them were fond of the nickname "Spooky," it was alright if the two of them bandied it back and forth.

"'Spooky'?" Charlie inquired.

"An old nickname for me at the Academy," Mulder answered before realizing his reply might be a bit vague. "The FBI training academy, I mean," he clarified. "People liked to call me 'Spooky Mulder.'"

"And due to my close association with my lovable partner—" she lightly jabbed Mulder in the ribs for effect. He buckled forward some but chuckled. "—I've become Mrs. Spooky to some."

"'Dana Spooky,'" Charlie said aloud, testing out the name. "Not a far cry from 'Scully.'" He turned to his brother. "What do you think, Bill?" Mulder immediately wished Charlie hadn't done so; he really wanted to avoid whatever scathing remark Bill was sure to come up with.

"It's unique," he said noncommittally. "I'll give you that." He fiddled with Matthew, repositioning him some in his lap. Maybe he was too distracted to come up with an appropriate response. But it wasn't like Bill to refrain from taking a crack at Mulder. A glance at Scully told him she was equally surprised. Maybe that talk between the Scully siblings had done some good.

"Well then, Mrs. Spooky," Mulder said, turning to his partner, "you want to tell me where your figure is?" A myriad of emotions flitted across her face, and Mulder couldn't quite place all of them, but her final expression was puzzlement. She looked at her younger brother for help. He grinned.

"Ok. Yeah, I know where it is. But first—my figure." He gestured for the pair of them to come nearer to him. "It's on this side of the tree. A bit higher than Melissa's. Right there." Mulder followed the young man's gaze and landed on yet another paper animal. His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what it was. "It's supposed to be an alligator," Charlie said. "I got it a little wrong on the head." Mulder tapped the piece lightly with a finger.

"I would've guessed it was some kind of platypus," he remarked.

"Yeah," Charlie nodded. "It's mouth is more rounded, but it _is_ green. Know of any green platypi?" He raised his eyebrows in a distinctly Scully-like impression.

"I'm sure they're out there," Mulder replied cryptically. "I've seen more surprising things." Scully rolled her eyes. "So..." Mulder began again, "where's yours, Scully?"

"Charlie?" she asked, turning to her brother as she set her hands on her hips.

"Back to the right side of the tree," he instructed. "Up there." He pointed to one of the higher branches. Once Mulder and Scully had rounded the tree again, he looked up to see the little orange figure. It was just out of Scully's reach had she wanted to grab it. He carefully plucked it from the branch.

"I'm guessing you two decided it ought to be exactly that high up," he commented to the two Scully brothers. Charlie looked conspiratorial, and even Bill cracked a smile. Mulder chuckled to himself and handed off the icon to Scully. She held it out in her open palm as Mulder looked it over. Her expression was unexpectedly void of emotion—as if she was purposefully trying to cover something up—but he wasn't able to pinpoint exactly what she was hiding. "Let me guess," he said, his eyes returning to the orange figure. It was much simpler than Bill's bear and Charlie's alligator but not nearly so evident as Melissa's traditional crane. Scully's animal could be any number of things. "Some sort of cat? A tabby?" Charlie laughed aloud, and Bill immediately shushed him. "Alright," Mulder mused. "I guess not."

He leaned in closer, wanting to get a better look at the animal. If he didn't correctly guess Scully's animal, he had a feeling she'd never let him live it down. Six years as partners, and he couldn't name her favorite childhood animal? But he and Scully never went over things like that from their youth. They talked about their childhood and adulthood, offering random tidbits here and there, but they never made a point of discussing such subjects.

"So what is it?" he asked, not wanting to dig himself into a deeper hole. Better to get the humiliation over with. Her eyes drifted up his face, her expression one of surprise.

"You actually need me to say it?" she said incredulously. Her blue eyes were wide. Mulder heard shuffling feet from behind him but ignored it.

"I don't know what it is," Mulder replied, perplexed. "So...yeah." Scully sighed, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath.

"It's a fox." Mulder dropped his eyes back down to the figure. It _was_ a fox. He had gotten close with his guess; the little animal looked distinctly cat-like in its poised, sitting pose. A flat bottom meant to mimic paws branched upward at both sides: one side lead to a pointed tail with a white tip, and the other began with the pale white of the animal's chest before broadening out into the fox's triangular face.

His eyes snapped back up to Scully.

"You chose a fox?" he asked outright. He didn't really know what else to say. Was it a sign or a portent? Had Scully's choice of that fox when she was a little girl somehow set her on the path to meet him? Was it just coincidence? As a rule, Mulder didn't like to believe in coincidence. Everything happened for a very particular reason, and everything had purpose. Scully smiled sheepishly, a very peculiar expression coming from her.

"I did," was all she said.

"And you never thought to mention to me that one of your favorite childhood animals happened to be my name?" He hastily turned to look at Scully's brothers. Charlie was clearly amused; Bill had returned to ignoring the room as a whole. "This isn't a joke, is it?" Charlie offered a strained, laughing smile.

"Nope." He nodded to the ornament. "That's been Dana's figure since we were kids; it's been on the tree for years now." Mulder spun back to Scully, looking for her explanation. She sighed, slowly meeting his eyes. To his surprise, there was a degree of worry to them.

"Mulder, I didn't tell you because I knew how you'd take it. You'd see it as some sort of sign that you and I were supposed to be together." Based on her tone alone, she didn't seem too invested in that notion.

"Well, don't you?" he returned. "You're Christian, Scully. Aren't you looking for signs from God that your life is set on the right path?" A picked up the origami figure from her palm. "And couldn't this be one of those signs?"

"You don't believe like that," Scully rationalized, waving away his religious argument.

"No, I don't," he agreed. "But I don't believe in coincidence either." He lightly shook the figure. "This means something."

"Then what does it mean, Mulder?" she asked, the skeptic in her resurfacing.

" _Something_ ," Mulder stressed. "That we're bound, tied." He paused, allowing his thoughts to reel for a few seconds. "Remember that time I was hypnotized and you were there in my past lives?" Scully's brows jerked upward sharply.

"The Civil War infantryman and the World War II refugee?"

"You were always _there_ , Scully. Somehow throughout our lives, we've always been together." He held up the origami fox. "I think this is just another sign of that."

"Mulder, I think last night got to you," Scully remarked, looking at him sadly. "You were scared to be alone, had some conversations with apparitions—illusions created by your own mind, and now you're looking for signs that you _aren't_ alone." Mulder shook his head.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort, Scully. I'm trying to convince _you_ of the signs, but you're deliberately ignoring them."

"Because you're seeing what you _want_ to see, Mulder," she retorted.

"Uh...speaking of signs." Mulder and Scully both looked at Charlie, confused at his blatant intrusion. He pointed to a spot above them. Mulder's eyes trailed upward, seeking out the object in question, then he spotted it: a sprig of mistletoe.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Scully griped, turning to her brothers. "I thought mom had stopped hanging the mistletoe."

"I think she put it up for Tara and me," Bill remarked, the color drained from his face. Mulder glanced once more up at the mistletoe before locking eyes with his partner.

"I think we've just found another sign." Scully silenced him with a hand before turning back to her brothers.

"You guys know this goes against every FBI protocol, right?" Mulder wasn't the least bit surprised that she fell back on the excuse of propriety. Like her, he hadn't been expecting an audience for the big moment, but then he hadn't expected to have it forced on them by some ritualistic holiday tradition either.

"That's bullshit, Dana," Charlie remarked, eyeing her steadily. "It's Christmas. Rules are made to be bent. And that is a sign if I ever saw one." Mulder couldn't help but grin at the younger man's enthusiasm.

"You heard the man, Scully."

"Mulder…" she breathed, her eyes inscrutable. She wasn't speaking out of affection. Her tone was wary and cautious if anything. Mulder took note; she wasn't ready, at least not at this time.

Call it gut instinct or a hunch, but some part of him knew that Scully ultimately wanted the same thing as him. He'd seen as much in his apartment hallway. She'd been her reserved, sensible self as she tried to say her goodbyes and walk away. Her guard only broke down when he called her back. Then there was something more lurking in her eyes—a newfound comprehension for how much he needed her, how much she had helped him. But she still hadn't fully given in. She was grateful; she was intimate. She tried to say her goodbyes again—a hug and a kiss on his forehead. Though despondent and not wanting to go, she was prepared to move on. Duty called. But selfish as he was, Mulder wouldn't let her. He held her in place, refusing to let go, and understanding dawned on her.

In those seconds as he drew near her, Mulder's desire hit peak intensity, and he saw Scully's matching desire. Or at least that's what he thought he saw. Standing in Scully's living room, there was no sign of that desire in her eyes right then.

He smiled, took her by the hand, leaned in, and brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Dana," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

Scully lounged back on the couch, propped up on a pillow that was wedged into the gap between the armrest and rear cushion. The sofa was a three seater so as long as she kept her legs curled in, she wouldn't risk kicking Mulder in the side. She was chatting idly with Charlie; Bill only interjected every now and then.

Mulder was quiet for the most-part. He was busy taking in the sense of the room after his rare public display of affection with Scully. The kiss didn't amount to much; it was a commonality during the holidays. There was nothing to be gleaned or surmised from it—even from among Scully and himself. They were still firmly settled into their customary roles; they were work colleagues and good friends, but nothing more. As much as he had wanted to shatter those established boundaries that existed between them, he had refused himself.

Scully had not wanted the same thing in that moment. Through their uncanny ability of silent communication, she had pleaded that he not do anything rash. He had listened.

The final gesture had been platonic and chaste, a thoroughly respectable interaction between two partners.

Relief resonated within her when she echoed back his holiday sentiment of "Merry Christmas." She tacked "Fox" onto the end just to needle him. He breathed a chuckle into her ear, watching the wispy strands of her hair dance in the air. As he drew away, he softly ran a thumb along her cheek, flattening the few tendrils he had upset and tucking them out of the way.

Scully tilted her head, her blue eyes piercing into his. Somewhere in those eyes, he thought he sensed a longing on her. But her candid expression told him he ought to stop what he was doing and keep his hands to himself. They had fulfilled the requirements of the centuries' old tradition, and it was time to return to some degree of normalcy.

If they had been alone, though, Scully might have been more accepting of his touch. She wasn't normally opposed to it; Mulder sensed it sometimes leant her necessary comfort and strength, just as her touch often did to him.

She nudged him in the side with a foot. His ruminations were jolted from him. The chatter between the Scully siblings continued liberally. Still stuck in the fog of his final thoughts, Mulder acted against his best judgment. He reached down and patted her ankle before flicking his eyes upward to meet hers.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Scully?" She broke off from her conversation with Charlie and looked at him perplexedly. Mulder tapped her ankle lightly with a finger. She angled her head to one side to see what he could possibly be referring to. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze settled on him again.

"Sorry?" she offered uncertainly. She wriggled her foot out from under his hand.

"You know assaulting a federal agent is against the law," Mulder noted. She didn't say anything; she only stared. Even through her silence, he could hear her bewildered reply of "Are you serious, Mulder?" He smirked challengingly, if only to antagonize her. With a look that told him to cut out the antics, she raised her foot and shoved it against his shoulder. Mulder chuckled as he rocked to one side. Charlie looked between the two of them, absolutely baffled.

"Seriously, you two are like kids sometimes," he said, shaking his head.

"And look who always starts it," Scully noted with a sharp glance toward Mulder.

"I resent that," Mulder argued with a laugh. "You provoke me, Scully!" She fixed him with her unrelenting gaze.

"So accidentally brushing up against you is provocation now?" Mulder grinned cheekily.

"Careful, Scully. I'll think you're using a pick-up line on me, and I'll be hard-pressed to say no." Bill's eyes flashed up toward him, and Mulder hastily realized he was toeing a dangerous line. Charlie laughed. It was obvious he was loving the opportunity to see his older sister put on the spot. Not to mention he likely felt the two agents had just confirmed his assessment of them.

"I think that beer has gone to your head, Mulder." With both their reputations on the line, Scully was attempting to keep to some model of decorum. Mulder glanced down at the bottle in his hand—his second of the night. He remembered one of the reasons why he didn't often drink: he was known to be a lightweight, and a couple of drinks could easily do him in.

"I guess I'll stick to water from here on out," he said gingerly setting down his beer. Scully nodded her approval. "At least I'm not as sloshed as that one time I showed up at your apartment at three in the morning." The words just tumbled out. Scully's eyes widened in alarm.

"Excuse me," Bill fumed. Mulder's head snapped in the direction of the elder Scully.

"I'd gone to pick up Scully for a case," Mulder said slowly, as if the explanation would clear everything up.

"At three in the morning? While piss drunk?" If possible, his tone seemed to harden further with each new word that passed his lips. Mulder ran his hand along his face. He should have foreseen that Bill would take objection to the statement. Truth be told, Mulder hadn't even thought of the potential implication of his words. He and Scully knew the truth of what happened, and that's all that mattered.

"It had been a bad day," Mulder explained wearily. Bill always necessitated clear-cut, unquestionable answers. Nothing could lurk in the gray area between black and white, or he'd think you were purposefully hiding something from him. "I'd had a bit too much to drink but tried to make sure I'd sobered up before arriving at Scully's." Bill opened his mouth to retort but was stopped by the timely arrival of his mother.

"Dinner's ready," she announced to the room.

 _What a way to end a conversation_ , Mulder thought dismally, knowing that wouldn't be the last he'd hear of it. He was sure it would come back to bite him in the ass.

* * *

Mrs. Scully ushered the family into the dining room. Tara had disappeared upstairs for a moment to put the baby to bed. Dinner would be an easier affair without little Matthew's presence. The adults could just enjoy the evening to themselves.

As he entered the room, Mulder's eyes roved over the immaculately set dinner table. Mrs. Scully had pulled out all the stops. A crisp, white tablecloth adorned the normally plain, rosewood table. At each place sat a white, china dinner plate with an embossed rim. A matching small plate was situated to the upper left corner. On the opposite side stood an empty wine class and a filled water glass. Silverware was appropriately placed as well: a single fork to the left and two types of cutlery—a sharp steak knife and a dulled butter knife—to the right. Mulder thought on how much it would upset the meticulous presentation of everything if a guest happened to be left-handed. Everything would have to be reversed, and the entire illusion would be ruined.

The only real flair to the display was in the white, cloth napkins. Having been carefully set into sleek, metallic napkin rings, they stood upright on the dinner plates and fanned out like a peacock tail.

The only things missing to make the entire production look like some formal aristocratic dinner from the turn of the century were place setting cards, crystal knife rests, and numerous, additional pieces of silverware.

And he still hadn't even taken in the various platters of food scattered around the table.

He picked out a beautiful roast cut of meat centered on the table; it was red meat, so that ruled out poultry and pork. It didn't look like beef to him, though. _Lamb?_ he wondered, cycling through all the popular holiday main dishes he knew of. Many households always kept to a traditional holiday ham; not the Scully's obviously. They were a caliber all their own.

His eyes roamed the rest of the table: au gratin potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds—and maybe a few crumbles of bacon, sauteed carrots mixed in with some other mystery vegetable, freshly baked dinner rolls, a gravy boat filled absolutely to the brim.

"Wow," Mulder intoned, resting his hands against one of the open-backed chairs. He leaned into his partner. "This is what you come home to, Scully?"

"Spoiled, aren't I?" she smirked up at him.

"You weren't joking when you were boasting about your mom's cooking this morning." He turned to face her more fully. "Makes me wonder what you're capable of in the kitchen." Scully shrugged ambiguously.

"You'll have to see if you get one of those rare dinner invitations." Mulder's eyes gleamed as he slipped on an easy smile.

"I take that as a challenge." Scully laughed.

"Anywhere specific you want us to sit, mom?" Charlie asked loud enough for everyone to hear and pulling Mulder and Scully from their brief private conversation. Both agents looked over their shoulders to where the petite Scully matriarch stood in the open doorway. With her hands on her hips, she crossed over to the table.

"Well, I was going to take the head of the table by the back door." She pointed out the furthest seat. "I was thinking Charlie would sit here—" She set her hands against the chair at the opposite end of the table. "—then Tara and Bill." She gestured to the two next chairs on her left. "And then Dana and Fox." She pointed out the two chairs on the right, this time indicating the furthest chair first.

Mulder mapped out the seating in his head. That meant he would be seated between Scully and Charlie with Tara across the way from him. He could manage that; anything was better than sitting next to Bill.

"Well, I can see I'm obviously not your favorite child," Charlie joked before assuming his seat as Mrs. Scully stepped aside.

"I tried to arrange it where I could see all my children easily," Mrs. Scully commented as she turned to the sideboard and picked up an already open bottle of red wine. "And I couldn't split up Tara and Bill or Fox and Dana." At Mrs. Scully's endearing, honest tone, Mulder felt a minor tinge of color rise to his cheeks. She made it sound like they were a confirmed couple.

Damn, those few beers had gotten to him. He wasn't normally so open, babbling on without a filter or getting flustered by the smallest insinuation. Thank goodness he was only buzzed. He didn't want to imagine himself blasted drunk at Mrs. Scully's.

"Think of it as a place of honor," Scully said to her brother, unfazed by her mother's statement. "You're the closest to the kitchen and can get out of your chair the easiest, so you can refill our glasses." She fingered the stem of the wine glass sitting in front of her. Mulder had to hand it to his partner; she was always on-point.

"And you're our baby brother," Bill added with a crinkle-eyed smile, not wanting to feel left out in the family team-up. "So you have more energy than the rest of us."

"I should have guessed you'd play the 'youngest sibling' card," Charlie griped. He looked around for someone to rally to his defense. His gaze landed on Mulder.

"You're on your own," Mulder said, raising his hands palms outward. "If I said anything against her, she'd likely kick my ass." He jutted a thumb over to Scully.

"Thanks for making me out to be the abusive partner," she said to him in an aside.

"Hey, you're the one who shot me, remember?" Mulder returned. Scully rolled her eyes with a heavy sigh and took her seat. Mulder followed suit. He stared at the arranged napkin on his plate, wondering if he ought to pluck it off now or later. It would have to be done at some point or another, but he was so out of his element at family dinners. He didn't want to accidentally commit a scandalous faux pas. Scully swiftly answered his question by removing her napkin and folding it on her lap before nodding to him with an encouraging glance. He shot her an appreciative smile. Thank God Scully was there to guide him through the labyrinth that was social norms.

As he settled his napkin down, Mrs. Scully swung by with the wine bottle.

"Fox?" she said, preparing to pour. He hastily covered the top of his glass with a hand.

"Thanks, Mrs. Scully." He held his hand steady. "I'm fine."

"Do you need anything else? Another beer?" Mulder shook his head.

"I'll just have some water for now," he assured her, touching the base of his water glass. "I'd forgotten that I'm a bit of a lightweight," he added in self-deprecating earnestness, "and the lack of sleep from last night only made my tolerance worse."

"Not much of a drinker?" Charlie asked as Mrs. Scully stepped over to Scully and filled her glass instead.

"Not really, and that's mainly because I don't get much opportunity to."

"How's that?" Bill asked from the opposite end of the table. He was just being antagonistic. Mulder knew as much.

"I take my work very seriously," Mulder stated, meeting Bill's eyes. There was no inflection to his tone; he was stone-cold serious. He didn't want Bill doubting his resolve. "When agents are assigned a case, we're advised against imbibing alcohol. It could severely affect our cognizant abilities and motor functions, especially when we're carrying firearms. I'd rather err on the side of caution than be a liability to my partner and a risk to all." He noticed Scully stiffen at his side; the animosity between him and her brother had the potential to come to a head, and she wanted to be prepared in case it should. Her hand hovered just over his knee, prepared to shove him back into his seat if things got worse. Mulder caught her eye and tried to offer a reassuring smile. He didn't intend things to get out of hand.

But there was always the chance it would.

"Even when we're technically off the clock, Mulder and I try to refrain from drinking in case we're called out unexpectedly," Scully added. She sought to remind Bill that he and Mulder weren't the only two in the room. Bill grunted his acknowledgement.

"I suppose that's safest," he admitted begrudgingly as Tara flew down the stairs and into the living room.

"Sorry about that," she apologized hurriedly, kissing her husband on the cheek and sitting down beside him. The simple action seemed to mollify Bill. Mulder wondered if Tara had somehow sensed the lingering tension when she entered the room. She was a good ally to have in his ongoing war with Bill.

"I hope you don't mind," Mrs. Scully said to her daughter-in-law as she returned to wine bottle to the side board. "I poured the Bourdeaux between us three ladies."

"Mmm," Tara mumbled after having taken a healthy sip. She quickly swallowed with a nod. "Good! That's what it was there for." She looked across the table to notice Mulder's empty glass. "You don't want any, Fox?" He pointed out the bottle behind her. Mulder smiled tightly.

"Not just yet. Thanks." He noticed Scully was barely able to conceal an amused smile. With the return of Tara, her stance had relaxed immensely. She knew her sister-in-law could handle her brother.

Finally, Mrs. Scully took her seat at the head of the table. Mulder was more than ready to dig in and just about jumped for the nearest dish, but Scully cautioned him with a glance.

"I hope you don't mind if we pray first, Fox." The statement was directed toward him, but Mulder was under the general impression that they would pray whether he protested against it or not. Mrs. Scully was showing him a consideration in informing him of their customs before proceeding with them. He quickly reassembled his stunned features into something more accommodating.

"Uh...go right ahead," he said, unsure of the best way to graciously accede to her request. Mrs. Scully smiled then bowed her head and clasped her hands together. The rest of the family did similarly. Mulder set his hands in his lap and bowed his head respectfully.

The family rattled off a traditional prayer. Mulder recognized it first and foremost from his youth; as a boy, he had Catholic friends, and when he joined them for family dinners, they'd often recite a similar prayer.

As he grew older and his propensity for profiling criminals grew, he had to learn details about different faiths, Christianity included. He learned of common prayers and popular Bible verses. He had to brush up on important Church doctrines and Christian symbolism.

Unsurprisingly enough, those studies had helped him crack a serial killer case. The murderer had a habit of leaving biblical passages at the scenes of the crime. The lines were written on ordinary copy paper by an out-of-date typewriter, and the edges of each scrap of paper had been burnt. There were no fingerprints, the copy paper and ink could be bought at any office supply store, and the typewriter was a common model dating back to the 1960's. All that Mulder had to go on were the Bible passages themselves. He dug through dozens of interpretations and translations of the Bible looking for the exact version the man had been using. Finally, he had a break. He found a rather obscure translation that was only common among specific fringe sects of Christianity. These radicals congregated in specific areas of the country, and the Bureau was able to narrow its search parameters to those regions. The personal files of known religious zealots belonging to those sects were pulled and cross-referenced with a police composite sketch of the killer. Soon enough, the Bureau found themselves with a name and a face. After that, it was quick work to catch the bastard and get him behind bars.

There was a chorus of "Amen." Scully shifted next to him, moving to cross herself in closing, but Mrs. Scully continued in a personal prayer. Scully clasped her hands together once more.

"Thank you for bringing us all together today. It's so rare I get to see all my children, and it's a blessing when I _do_ get to see them." Mrs. Scully looked from one side of the table to the other, smiling affectionately. After a moment, she resumed. "Of course, we miss those who can't be with us—Bill and Melissa and Emily." Mulder about jumped as Scully's back went ramrod straight. She hadn't been expecting the acknowledgement of her daughter. "We hope that they're with you in peace and look forward to joining them again in the future."

Mrs. Scully's words were dancing at his ear, but Mulder was more concerned with his partner. Her head was bowed and her eyes were shut in silent prayer, but her posture began to slacken. Her shoulders sagged. It was like she was collapsing into herself in a sudden resurgence of grief. Mulder knew he shouldn't disturb her, but he didn't care. He set a hand on her shoulder. Scully started beneath him and her eyes flew open, flickering over to his. Mulder attempted a comforting smile. She returned the gesture with what muster she could, but the smile didn't meet her eyes. Before reassuming her previous position, she reached for his hand and held it tightly as it rest against her shoulder. She set her other hand in her lap, bowed her head, and closed her eyes once more. Mulder folded his fingers around the slim tips of hers. He felt her thumb slowly brush against his wrist.

"Thank you, as well, for bringing Tara into our lives. She is certainly Bill's better half." Mulder watched as the married couple broke their poised stances and reached for each other's hands. "Thank you for Matthew this past year. His bright energy is such a wonderful addition to this family." For a rare moment—at least in Mulder's experience of him—Bill looked authentically happy. He wasn't hindered family traumas or worries. He was a man with a loving wife and a beautiful son; so long as he had that family, he had everything he could want in the world.

Mulder wondered if he'd ever attain that kind of happiness. He had tried once upon a time, but it wasn't the happily ever after he was looking for. Since then, he hadn't really given it a second thought.

But those kinds of thoughts had become more prevalent in recent months. It went beyond visiting the Scully household and visualizing the life he had never gotten to experience, and it went beyond his increasing closeness with his partner; that former chance at happiness had reappeared in his life—in the shape of his former flame, Diana Fowley. In his mind, there was nothing between Diana and himself anymore besides an intimate history, but her presence reminded him of what he'd lost—of what he's sacrificed in his life. And sometimes there were those moments when he wished he could have a chance at that happiness again.

"And thank you for letting Fox join us this evening." Mulder's ears perked up at the mention of his name. "He's been such a support to Dana over the years, and he's always been there for the family." Scully's hand squeezed against his. Did they really mean that? Were they thankful for his presence in their lives despite the horrors he had brought with him? He desired happiness, yes, but that didn't mean he was deserving of it.

He wasn't really deserving of Scully.

"We've had a year full of changes and a year full of blessed events." Mulder loosened his grip on Scully. She refused to let go. "Hopefully 1999 will be just as noteworthy as we look onto the millennium." Scully opened her eyes and looked at him; Mulder felt as some of his doubts were chased away. He may not be deserving of Scully, but he was glad to have her. "Amen."

There was another resounding "Amen" from the family. After another affectionate squeeze, Scully released him and turned to her wine glass, swirling the undulating ruby-red liquid and taking a drink. Mulder reset the napkin against his lap, smoothing out the creases that had appeared there. As he raised his eyes to look at the table again, he caught Mrs. Scully looking at him. She smiled warmly. Her gaze turned to the table as a whole, and her smile broadened.

"Well, go ahead!" she said. "Help yourselves!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _I am so sorry for the long wait for this chapter! But I hope you all still have an interest in this (belated) holiday story!_

 _Otherwise, what are you all thinking of the return of_ The X-Files _? If you reply/review, please try to refrain from posting spoilers, but I'd love to hear your opinions! Is it just as great as you remembered the original series? Is it a nice, fresh take on things? Are the cast/crew trying to hard to recapture the glory of the '90s?_

 _But without further ado…._

* * *

Mulder ran a piece of dinner roll along his plate, sopping up the remains of gravy, potatoes, and vegetables before popping it into his mouth. He had finished two full plates and was debating a bit more. He still had half a dinner roll to eat, after all. Scully picked at some green beans she had left. Bill was helping serve Charlie another piece of lamb.

"So are you two ever going to tell us what happened last night?" Charlie asked, as he took back his plate from his big brother. He picked up the bowl of au gratin potatoes next to him and took a heaping spoonful. Scully briefly ceased chewing in silent consideration, then continued again as she covered her mouth with a hand and swallowed.

"I'm not really sure it's appropriate dinner conversation," she said, dropping her hand out of the way so she could articulate more clearly. "It's a bit grisly."

"Not if we tell it right," Mulder countered with a small smile as he popped another piece of roll into his mouth. Charlie tilted his head to one side, eyeing his older sister; he wasn't about to accept her reservations so easily.

"Come on," he pressed. "I was hoping for an exciting story about what my big sister does for a living."

"It wasn't an actual case," Scully reminded him, hoping he'd drop the subject.

"But you aren't legally allowed to disclose the details of your real cases," Charlie argued. "This story is likely the closest we'll ever get to one." Scully raised a hand to her face, muttering something about overly-clever younger brothers.

"It is pretty tame compared to some of the stuff we've seen, Scully," Mulder reasoned as he piled a mound of potatoes onto his plate.

" _Tame?_ " Scully asked incredulously. "You were just as unnerved as I was last night, Mulder."

"Yeah," Mulder nodded with a grin, "because I lived through it. I imagine it would just be an an interesting story to someone else. Something you'd hear about on one of those fake documentary shows. Like an episode of _Sightings_." Scully blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

"You can't tell me you watch those kinds of shows," she stated dumbfounded. He heard Charlie chuckle from behind him.

"Only to see if the accounts of the interviewers line up with the already established characteristics of a phenomena."

"And?" Scully asked, mildly curious as to his findings. "Your conclusions?"

"Varied," Mulder shrugged, well aware that if the Scully family didn't think him a nutjob now, they were about to. With a cursory glance about the table, he began. "Those said to be abducted by aliens hit the major points: loss of time, flashes of returning memories, the discovery of implants." He ticked the list off on his fingers. "But there are elements that only exist thanks to the popularity of science fiction, namely the descriptions of the aliens looking reptilian in nature, the assertion that they were performing Frankensteinian experiments on the captured humans." He stabbed at a few potatoes with his fork. "Whether or not they were actually abducted, I think they were coached for the cameras. It all came off a little too _Star Trek_." He had tried to pretend he was just talking to Scully alone; even if the rest of the table was staring at him in wide-eyed ridicule, she'd at least take him seriously.

"It _all_ comes off _Star Trek_ , Mulder," Scully retaliated, "because all cases of alien abduction or extraterrestrial intervention are likely based on _Star Trek_." Mulder wanted to argue about the very specific case of her abduction, but knew it would only bring back bad memories for everyone present. He glanced beyond Scully at her mother. She had been shot to pieces when Scully hadn't been returned a few weeks after her disappearance from Skyland Mountain. Even worse, she had been ready to give up. He had stood alongside her as Scully's headstone was revealed. He hated thinking back on that moment.

"So everything from last night was straight out of _Poltergeist_?" he said instead in his customary teasing manner. Mrs. Scully smiled; either she enjoyed their oddball banter or she enjoyed her daughter's ease and comfort when interacting with him. At least she wasn't upset by their dominating the conversation. Their back and forth had the habit of being a bit exclusive.

"I was thinking more along the lines of _Beetlejuice_ ," Scully smirked. "Whatever those two spectres were—"

"Maurice and Lyda?"

"If you'd rather call figments of your imagination that…" Scully nodded. The table chuckled, all except Bill, that is. Scully was putting on an act; she was trying to make the conversation more involved for the entertainment of her family. "I mean all the pranks they pulled, they seemed less intent on outright harming us. They seemed more content with making mischief."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed. "Because they wanted us to pull the trigger ourselves."

"Alright," Charlie intervened, obviously tired of all the vague references that only the two of them could understand. "Will you please give us a context for all this?" Mulder glanced over at Scully, his fork poised over a pile of potatoes. She shook her head.

"It's your story, Mulder. You tell it." With a sigh, he clattered his fork to the plate and sat up straight.

"There's a house in Maryland located at 1501 Larkspur Lane. It's the former residence of Maurice and Lyda, a couple who survived both World War I and the Spanish Flu in 1917 only to die by their own hands. They made a lover's pact and killed one another on Christmas Eve. Since then, there have been six more occupants in that house—all to die in double-murders on Christmas Eve. So the story goes that on every Christmas Eve, the apparitions of those star-crossed lovers return and haunt the house. Needless to say, I wanted to check it out." He was finally able to take a bite of food from his plate.

"You told it so much more eloquently last night," Scully criticized. Mulder grinned at her. He had pulled her out into the middle of nowhere a few hours short of midnight on Christmas Eve; he had to spin some kind of intriguing story to convince her to stay. Anyway, he always loved an opportunity to impress Scully.

"But the story's the same," Mulder pointed out. "Unless you'd rather I preamble it with 'It was a time of dark, dark despair' again?" Scully chuckled and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at her now empty plate.

"So you met Maurice and Lyda?" Tara asked, clearly invested in the goings-on of their nighttime outing.

"After they'd had a bit of fun with us, yes," Mulder nodded.

"That's if we're to assume this was all real," Scully added, unable to wholly let go of the concept that the entire event had happened in their heads.

"What'd they do?" Charlie asked, twirling his beer bottle in his fingers.

"Their goal was to get Scully and I to take part in a—" he hesitated, unsure whether he should say it for what it was, a lover's pact. "—suicide pact," he eventually decided. It was the safest choice given the company he was in. "At first they were trying to convince us to do it, noting the benefits of it. That we'd never be lonely again; we'd be together forever. That kind of stuff." Mulder warily looked at Bill. He knew if any of them was going to object to the story, it would be him. Sure enough, he had a scowl on his face. Mulder hurriedly continued. "When that didn't work, they decided to isolate us and try to sow seeds of doubt."

"Well, how were they trying to convince you?" Charlie asked, his face scrunched in confusion.

"Illusions," Scully said matter-of-factly. Charlie looked at her expectantly; he'd been hoping for more than a one word answer. Scully glanced over to Mulder.

"Take it away, Scully," he said, gesturing to her. He wasn't going to get stuck telling their ghost story alone. She sighed.

"There was a study—or a library. Whatever you'd like to call it." She seemed a bit distracted, or perhaps she just really didn't want to share the story with her professional reputation on the line. Mulder nodded at her encouragingly, and she added more gusto to her telling. "We found a pair of corpses under the floorboards, and they were dressed like us. I mean—exactly like us." She motioned toward her outfit. "It was down to the letter."

"Creepy," Charlie said through a smile.

"You're sure no one was setting you up?" Tara asked. Mulder shook his head.

"No one knew we were going to be there. I only called Scully when I was driving over."

"You mean demanded I meet you at a mysterious address with no explanation of exactly why I was going there," Scully specified. Mulder shrugged nonchalantly, and was surprised when Mrs. Scully spoke up.

"You still joined him, Dana. That must say something." Mulder grinned.

"Have I ever told you how much I like you mom?" Scully rolled her eyes with a smile. "And I mean that as an individual _and_ as a chef." He looked toward Mrs. Scully. "That was a fabulous meal. Scully had talked up your skills, but I think she underestimated you." Mrs. Scully reddened with a slight smile.

"Thank you, Fox."

"Hey, hey, we're not getting side-tracked," Charlie warned, blatantly drawing the attention back to himself. "I mean a couple of dummies dressed up like the two of you _is_ creepy, but anyone could put that together."

"They were bodies," Scully confirmed. "I'd looked them over. No prop can mimic the stench of a decomposing corpse to that effect. I should know."

"And then there's the fact that they disappeared," said Mulder.

"A trap door," Charlie ventured. Mulder raised a finger as if to say, "Not so fast!"

"The floorboards were replaced—as if I'd never removed them in the first place."

"I trick with mirrors or lighting then," Charlie tried again.

"They were real corpses?" Tara asked, seemingly horrified as the prospect.

"Made to resemble us," Mulder stressed. "And if you want to believe that was a trick, Charlie, how do you explain this: at the far side of the study, Scully and I found a door. We opened it so we could investigate the rest of the house. The door led to exact replica of the room we were standing in." Charlie made for a comeback, but Mulder cut him off. "And before you say it actually _was_ a replica room, know that it was the same to the very last detail. The floorboards were still removed, revealing the two corpses."

"This was before the corpses disappeared," Scully added for clarity's sake.

"Whoever your pranksters were could have set up surveillance cameras in the library and just mimicked every change you'd made to the original room." Charlie was still determined to prove him wrong.

"Is your entire family intent on debunking me, Scully?" Mulder asked with a chuckle, briefly turning back to his partner.

"Comes with the territory, I guess," Scully shrugged, though Mulder could tell that she was proud of her brother's rationalizations.

"Let Fox finish the story," Mrs. Scully intoned to her son since there was a lull in the conversation.

"I really don't mind the input," Mulder returned. "It keeps me on my toes, like Scully does on a daily basis."

"You'd think that's all I was good for," Scully rolled her eyes.

"Is that really why you keep my sister around?" It was the first thing Bill had said in many minutes. The occupants shifted around the table uncomfortably. Tara stared at her husband, shocked at the absolute gall of him. Mulder frowned.

"I don't know why you assume it's Mulder's choice whether I remain partnered with him," Scully said stiffly before anyone else had a chance to reply. For a moment, Bill looked as if he regretted broaching the topic, but it was too late to turn back now.

"I don't tell Scully what to do," Mulder added in his defense. "I'm her partner, not her superior." Bill contemplated responding; Tara murmured something in his ear. Whatever her words were, they didn't help. He brazenly threw caution to the wind.

"But you seem to head this division you both work on." The statement was directed toward Mulder again. "A dead end division, I might add, if the rumors I've heard are true." Mulder sighed, aggravated with Bill's unending put-downs. Scully met his gaze concernedly.

"While I can't go into details, we work for a very specialized branch of the Bureau. Few are qualified for the nature of the work we do." He purposefully ignored Bill's insinuation that his position was more important than Scully's. Hell, if any of the Bureau top brass had heard Bill's statement, they would have laughed; they'd much rather have Dr. Dana Scully on their team than "Spooky" Mulder. She was a _much_ greater asset. "Scully and I are uniquely qualified," he continued, gesturing to his partner and himself. "And while it may not make the papers, our work has a tremendous impact on the lives of American citizens." He decided to play up the nationalistic angle, hoping that would appease Bill. And it was true; their actions might have saved hundreds if not thousands of lives even while their deeds went unrecognized.

Bill looked unconvinced.

"Bill," Mulder tried again, looking to meet him man-to-man, "I wouldn't have gotten this far without Scully. Don't go thinking I see her as a pawn to be taken advantage of and used on a whim. Her help has been invaluable to me on both a professional and personal level. If not for her, I'd probably be strapped to a gurney and put into a medically-induced coma in some psychiatric ward, or six feet under in an unmarked grave."

Looking him in the eyes, Mulder knew Bill wanted to refute him. He wanted to come back and say that maybe Scully would have been better off then, holding down a stable, secure job and having a life. But he couldn't say as much in front of his entire family. He would show his hand—that he honestly didn't trust his sister's sound judgment.

Bill dropped his gaze, refraining from answering altogether. Mrs. Scully's sharp eyes swiveled from her eldest son to her remaining daughter, noting the bitterness that lurked there. She only wished for her family to come together in support of one another. There were too few of them left for anyone to get caught up in rivalries or petty squabbles.

Charlie coughed. He attempted to make it seem natural, but it was an obvious bluff.

"So, you were...uh, saying?" he said hesitantly, looking to Mulder and Scully. Mulder's brows fused together; Scully had a similar expression of bewilderment. The mood had been dampened by Bill's most recent outburst. "The house…" Charlie prompted. "In Maryland."

"Oh," Mulder exclaimed reservedly. "Um...yeah. Maurice and Lyda split Scully and me up." He ran a hand through his shortened hair. He wasn't entirely sure if he liked the new cut. "And they tried to convince each of us to go along with the lover's pact—"

"'Lover's pact?'" Tara interjected, momentarily distracted from placating her husband. Mulder smiled grimly, realizing he had slipped up.

"Yeah…" he affirmed. "They were intent to make us believe that we were, in fact, lovers."

"They never stressed that with me, Mulder," Scully commented, looking at him. Mulder wished she hadn't said that. That meant the ghostly couple had specifically targeted him with that tactic, likely because he was more susceptible to that type of coercion.

 _Stupid pop psychology_ ….

"Maybe it was just me, then," he shrugged, hoping to appear indifferent. "Just a tactic they tried with me," he repeated lamely, hoping the conversation would move along as quickly as humanly possible.

"Go on," Charlie said, attempting to settle back into his role of the avid listener. "There has to be more to it."

 _Thank you, Charlie!_ Now everything could return to a state of normalcy as the story attempted to regain its prior momentum. Mulder could sense that he didn't have nearly as much exuberance in the telling as he had earlier, but he found himself more motivated to try and maintain the lighthearted tone.

"The big finale, I guess you'd call it," Mulder assented with a weak smile. He turned to his partner. "You start first, Scully. I think this part is supposed to be told chronologically." Scully folded her hands on the edge of the table.

"Well, I'd been talking to...Maurice—" She stated the name hesitantly, as if she didn't think it appropriate to name a mental projection. "And I heard you banging on the door. Maurice warned me that I shouldn't trust you—that you'd try to kill me, but I ignored him and let you in." She paused to take a breath, continuing slowly. "I'd already had my gun drawn—"

"Just like you, Scully," Mulder said under his breath loud enough for the table to hear. It had the desired effect. The few listeners laughed. Scully shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, then continued.

"Anyway, you came into the room and drew your gun, periodically firing at me in between rants about having to kill one another and goading me to shoot you." Charlie stared at his sister with wide eyes.

"This actually happened?" he asked Mulder, looking for confirmation.

"To her, it did," he nodded.

"And you don't remember any of this?" he said distrustfully.

"It wasn't me." Mulder replied point-blank.

"How's that possible?" Charlie asked, his brow furrowing. He gestured to his sister. "She said it was you!" Mulder shook his head again, allowing a smile to creep into place.

"It wasn't me," he denied again.

"What happened, Dana?" Mrs. Scully asked neutrally, a serious expression on her face. Scully sighed.

"I tried to contradict you," she rolled her eyes over to her partner, "—deny that you'd shoot me. Even after Maurice and Lyda tried to convince me otherwise and you went on your rampage." She paused, staring at Mulder.

"So what happened?" Charlie interrupted, leaning in. She looked over to her baby brother.

"He shot me." She pointed to a spot on her cardigan. "Not a location that's immediately lethal, but will be if you allow yourself to bleed out."

"He shot you?" Tara broke in, that being the first time she'd heard of the two agents either intending to or actually shooting one another. Bill and Charlie had heard about the Krycek incident earlier while Mrs. Scully had been a witness to Scully's paranoid attempts to shoot her partner when she had been under the influence of a manipulative television signal. As dismaying a thought as it was, Mulder and Scully were no strangers to pulling guns on one another. Scully nodded to her sister-in-law.

"Then he got dragged away by Maurice as he attempted to shoot himself. An attempt to complete the pact, I have to assume."

"Bastard should pay," Bill muttered. Five sets of eyes flashed towards him for an instant.

"Short of losing my life, I think I paid well enough," Mulder interjected, trying to take Bill's comment as an ill-timed quip despite knowing he'd meant it in all seriousness. "Because when I found Scully lying on the floor bleeding out, she shot me!"

"What?" Charlie exclaimed.

"She wished me a 'Merry Christmas,' and then—bam!" He held his hand like a gun, pointer finger outstretched, and jerked it upward to mime firing off a round. "Some Christmas present, Scully," he remarked to her, leaning back in his straight-backed chair.

"Well, if you _had_ actually shot me, you would have deserved it," she gibed back, her mood loosening up as the story continued.

"How is that possible?" Tara asked. Charlie leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against the white tablecloth as he tried to rationalize everything.

"So that house is the setting for some kind of trap?" He was talking aloud to himself as he tried to put the pieces together. Mulder remained quiet, letting him talk, interested to hear what conclusions he would come to. "Murderers or robbers hunker down there waiting for the house to attract some paranormal enthusiasts. And when potential victims arrive, they freak them out with a bunch of elaborate tricks: the bodies—if they _were_ actually bodies." He glanced shyly over at his sister. "I'm sorry, Dana. I just wonder if you stumbled on a pair of really lifelike movie props." Scully scoffed, but refrained from commenting. "Then there was the second library and the act to try and convince you two into the suicide pact. If you willingly killed each other, then they'd not have to worry about taking care of you themselves. But you didn't buy into it, so to substantiate the haunted house gimmick, they disguised themselves as you and fired." Mulder was resting his chin into a cupped palm.

"What would be the purpose of the disguise? If we were killed, that wouldn't have mattered. Why seek to trick us minutes before death?"

"In case you weren't killed immediately," Charlie readily answered. "Or in case you somehow escaped! Rather than asserting that murderers were living in the house, you'd claim that Dana tried to kill you."

 _And Scully says my theories are far-fetched_ , Mulder couldn't help but thinking.

"And why would these murderers or bandits hole up in the house and plan this elaborate ruse?" Scully asked in turn.

"They'd have the perfect cover," Charlie explained. "Everyone believes that place is a haunted murder house so if they staged their murders that way, no one would suspect anything was going on!"

"Uh-huh," Scully said, clearly unconvinced.

"I think your little brother is trying to give us a run for our money, Scully," Mulder teased. "Maybe we should turn over the division to him."

"There's one problem with that…" Tara said slowly as she formulated her thought. She leaned over the table so should could get a better look at Mulder and Scully; her eyes scanned them up and down, then she smiled. "You two don't look like you've been shot." Mulder smiled approvingly.

"Someone's using their little grey cells," he stated, looking from Tara to Charlie, both staring at him inquisitively. Mulder couldn't tell whether they were confounded at his reference or just wanted him to continue in his explanation. After a cursory glance to his partner for confirmation—in which she silently divulged that she had understood him—he clarified his previous statement. "Tara's right. We weren't shot."

"Oh, thank goodness," Mrs. Scully breathed. Mulder smiled sheepishly at her, having forgotten that she might have been authentically nervous for her daughter's life. He, meanwhile, had been hung up on the clarity of vague literary references.

"So what? It was blanks and a blood pack?" Charlie asked, still trying to figure out how to make sense of the tale.

"That wouldn't account for the actual sensation of being shot," Scully responded. "For all intents and purposes, I was shot. I felt the bullet penetrate, the blood spurt, my breathing hitch. I saw and smelt the blood. I was covered in it." She looked to Mulder to support.

"Keep going, Scully," he urged. "Might as well finish it off." He leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms. Scully looked less than pleased at the prospect.

"Why do I have to do it?" she asked suspiciously.

"Because you'll add a merit of objectivity to the story that I couldn't possibly achieve. I'm known for spouting off nonsensical narratives. You, on the other hand, approach everything from a rational stance, only believing in what you can prove to be true either through sensory experience or scientific evidence. So if _you_ saw it, our audience would be more inclined to believe it." He gestured to the remainder of her family sitting at the table.

"Saw what?"

"What happened next," Mulder answered vaguely, motioning to Scully.

"Seeing something doesn't verify it actually happened," Scully reminded him. "I told you earlier, our senses can be tricked." He nodded lazily, beseeching for her to continue. She sighed once, silent for a moment as she decided where to begin. Her eyes flickered up to her audience. "Despite being shot and bleeding profusely, I managed to drag myself down the stairs. Mulder did the same." She glanced over at her partner, looking at him curiously as she spoke. "I was nearing the front door, and he was at the base of the stairs. About a ten foot span between us. Of course, at the sight of one another, we both drew our guns in self-defense."

"That's what Maurice and Lyda had been hoping for," interrupted Mulder. "They posed as Scully and me, subjecting us to illusions of being shot by our respective, and seemingly maddened, partner.. They did it to such detail—the physical manifestation of it with the sound of the gunshot and the blood and everything else—that we authentically believed it, and our brains—our pain receptors, specifically—filled in the missing pieces, making us experience the pain of having been shot in the chest."

"So neither of you were actually shot, but you believed you were?" Charlie asked with a frown.

"Because Maurice and Lyda wanted to pit Scully and me against each other and force us to go through with the suicide pact," Mulder nodded. "If we wouldn't do so willingly, they'd manipulate us until we did. Because they couldn't hurt us themselves and murdering us would be counter-intuitive. We had to die by our own hands."

"That's quite a story…" Charlie commented contemplatively, "and quite a scheme. Ghosts or not, that's a lot of faith to put into the presumption that you'd believe you were shot by your own partner. If one little thing had gone wrong, their entire plot would have fallen apart."

"They knew it would go right," Mulder said casually with a shrug. He had learned not to underestimate the capabilities of the fantastical creatures and specters he frequently ran into during his X-Files cases. More often than not, they were much cleverer than the common man, showcasing their efficiency by surviving on a planet populated by a race that was none the wiser to their existence.

"But how?" Charlie asked. "How can you predict something like that?"

"They've had decades of practice," Mulder reasoned. "They've seen their effects on six other victims and can deduce how other humans are likely to react in turn. Perhaps even more frightening, they were once us, so they know how we'd naturally react. Not to mention they played all their cards right: dropping us in a setting where we'd instinctually be wary and alert, heightening our sense of terror through little pranks, forcing us to question both our sanity and our life choices, then forcing us to come face-to-face with an unthinkable scenario: staring into the maniacal eyes of someone you completely trust as they pull the trigger on you." The room went quiet. Mulder realized he had unintentionally been a bit heavy-handed in his postulating. Scully was used to such long-winded theories and rationalizations, but it was a bit daunting in a traditionally festive setting. "Uh...sorry," he embarrassedly apologized with an attempted smile. "Didn't mean to spoil the mood."

"You don't need to apologize, Fox," Mrs. Scully said kindly.

"Uh...no," Charlie agreed after shaking the unwarranted thoughts from his dead and focusing in on the agent. "No mood spoiled! It just took me a moment to wrap my head around what you said." With a sly smile, he leaned down against the table toward his sister. Scully curiously leaned forward some as well, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Is he always like this, Dana?" he asked in a stage whisper. Scully chuckled and leaned back against her chair.

"You have no idea," she remarked with a knowing smirk at her partner. Charlie straightened in his seat and grinned.

"No offense meant," he apologized to Mulder, aware that his joke could be taken in bad taste. "It's just you can come on a bit strong." He shrugged as if there was no other way to explain it.

"None taken," Mulder waved off. "It's a wonder Scully sticks with me." Mulder couldn't help his gaze settling on Bill for a brief moment. The elder Scully looked a bit dark and surly, but otherwise remained quiet.

"Well, I want to know how last night ended," Tara interrupted from beside her husband. "You and Dana had your guns pointed at one another prepared to shoot. So then what? Because you obviously didn't shoot." She gestured to the two of them sitting there at ease. Mulder and Scully locked eyes for a brief moment.

"Neither of us _could_ shoot," Scully attempted, clearly unsure of how to go about explaining their last few minutes in the haunted Maryland house. "I mean: we aimed, we had our fingers poised on the trigger, but…." She looked to Mulder for help.

"We both realized it was futile," Mulder said, more for the benefit of Scully than their listening audience. The words didn't sound exactly right, but he didn't know any other way to say it.

They both had the option to end their partner's life in one final gunblast. They both had motive. But when it came down to that moment of decision, neither could act. They were both dead, anyway, bleeding out as they were and with no means of contact with the outside world. So what was the point of quickening death? Even if it were for the very real purpose of vengeance or self-defense?

Instead, they found themselves conversing of their shared fear—of loneliness, of death, they never went into detail about exactly what they feared—but it was present, nonetheless. Rather than put themselves into a situation where they would have to face death alone, they resolved to face it together, seeking comfort in one another and commiserating on their impending fate.

Maurice and Lyda had asserted all night that there was a degree of falsity to his and Scully's relationship. They claimed that he and Scully only stuck by one another out of selfish, personal gain—and the moment one or the other of them outlived their use, their relationship would be abruptly decimated.

Then they insisted that if he and Scully were looking for an authentic relationship that proved their devotion to one another, a sacrifice would be necessary. They would have to willingly die in a lover's pact—the ultimate vow that would bind two souls together forevermore.

But those two ghosts really didn't know him and Scully. Through the years of their partnership, they had repeatedly shown the willingness to sacrifice life and limb—and career, in Scully's case—for the benefit of the other. Hell, they both _had_ made sacrifices—whether in the pursuit of the truth for the welfare of each other. They had lost family members, key pieces of the conspiratorial puzzle, the chance at a normal life even.

If that wasn't the sort of unspoken vow that would bind him and Scully together, Mulder didn't know what was.

And that devotion just existed—permanently binding the two of them together no matter what happened. Even if it were something so manic and incomprehensible as being shot point-blank in the chest. It would take much more than being shot be Scully to push Mulder into the realm of stark raving madness—to coerce him to deliberately kill his partner. He didn't think he'd ever be capable of that.

But how about Scully? Why did she refrain from firing? Had the pain of the bullet wound been too much or had it been a conscious decision? Was she, too, overcome by the history that existed between them?

Mulder watched her, purposefully ignoring the cast of characters surrounding him. He wondered what she read into his words. Did she correctly interpret the layers of meaning that resided there? Whether or not she did, she scrutinized him just as carefully, her sharp blue eyes staring into his. They were curious and perplexed; she sensed that he acted with intention, and she was trying to discern what that could be. Her expression was eerily similar to the one she wore when he was caught up musing on a theory and she was trying to catch up to him and his specific brand of logic.

In that moment, she was exhibiting that singular characteristic that was so Scully and that always made him appreciate having her as both a partner and a friend: she never shied away from him and his ruminations. Typical colleagues and casual acquaintances would notice the look in his eye and leave him to his thoughts. But she never let it go. She pushed him and she questioned him, trying to puzzle together his haphazard thoughts into a wholly rational idea.

And that was the point she was at right then: trying to make sense of him and clarify the enigma that was taunting her—the anomaly of his expression, his eyes—what he was trying to tell her without the use of words.

He grinned lightly, never having been able to pass up on a chance to tease Scully, sometimes much to her chagrin. And he realized he owed her family a better answer than the one he had offered earlier.

"It was better to die together than completely alone," he said, returning his attention to the group. Scully caught his eye; she was still trying to figure him out. For the meantime, he would let her, and if she found the need to question him later, then he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"But you weren't dying," Tara ventured uncertainly.

"But we thought we were," Mulder corrected. "We were shot, we were bleeding out, we were in immense pain."

"So how did you guess you weren't dying?" she asked urgently, looking from Mulder to Scully. Upon the realization that it was her turn to speak, Scully returned to the conversation at hand.

"Don't ask me." She raised her hands in surrender. "I'm really not exactly sure _how_ it happened, to be honest. But somehow Mulder figured it out." She looked quizzically over at him.

"It was what you said," Mulder said easily. "You were justifiably angry at me and said that I shot you. Well, I knew that wasn't true, so I came to the only possible conclusion: that were being had by a pair of con artist ghosts."

"Mulder, it was mere seconds between when I yelled at you and when you realized you were okay…" Scully reminded him, obviously skeptical that he could make those kind of illogical leaps at such a breakneck pace.

"It's what happened," Mulder shrugged.

"Wait," Charlie interrupted. "The answer just suddenly dawned on you? Something as nonsensical as that?"

"Now you see why working with Mulder is always an adventure," Scully smirked. "You never know what conclusion he's going to come to."

"Be happy I was right, though, Scully," Mulder chuckled, "otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here having enjoy your mother's lovely dinner." Mrs. Scully nodded appreciatively.

"But that's the ending?" Charlie blurted out. "All the tricks, the pseudo-death, and you just up and realize it was a joke?"

"Well, I had to convince Scully first," Mulder murmured with a pointed look to his partner. "She was a little hesitant to accept the truth." Scully stared at him from under her eyelashes, trying to keep a stony expression despite the slight smile betraying her.

"And I hate to say it," she sighed with a long look at her brother, "but he was right. He pulled me up off the floor and while we were both covered in blood, we were perfectly alright."

"But there's still one more spooky element to it," Mulder added, raising his hand and holding a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

"What?" Charlie asked lazily, twirling his beer bottle in mid air once more as it dangled from his hand. "Did the ghosts come out of hiding weighed down by heavy chains with handkerchiefs around their heads?

"Even I would be hard pressed to believe that," Mulder countered with a slight smile. "No," he continued more seriously. "We didn't see Maurice or Lyda again. We just booked it out of the house, but the moment we stepped outside, our clothes were completely blood-free."

"Not a drop," Scully confirmed. "And once we were safely back in our cars and put a few miles between us and the house, we pulled over and I performed a brief physical examination on both of us—to determine if we had, in fact, been injured." Charlie's eyebrows shot up in interest at that statement. He grinned cheekily.

"So you strip-searched Mulder in the middle of the night on the roadside?"

"Charlie!" Mrs. Scully chided. Mulder couldn't help but laugh and looked to his partner. Scully's cheeks visibly reddened as she glowered at her younger brother. Mulder laughed all the harder, rarely getting the opportunity to see his partner authentically flustered. He barely noticed Charlie's use of his surname instead of "Fox."

"No," Scully said point-blank, staring down her brother. "I searched for a—" she paused, closing her eyes in frustration at some realization known only to her, then continued, "—a point of penetration." Her teeth were practically gritted together. Charlie laughed even louder, banging his beer down against the table. "Neither of us were wounded," she finished hastily, gathering that there was no reason to go into further detail and likely not wanting to give her brother more ammo to use against her.

"Charlie..." Mrs. Scully said again, much less severe than before, but still just as stern.

"Sorry, mom," he apologized, trying to stifle his laughter. "That just couldn't have been more perfect." Mulder affectionately put his arm around Scully's shoulders. She watched him warily, deducing he was up to no good.

"I guess I shouldn't tell him about that time when we were lost overnight in the Florida woodlands." Scully's eyes flashed in warning. He looked up to Charlie. "I'll just say Scully is a very proficient snuggler and doesn't have a bad set of pipes." If looks could kill, Mulder would have been vaporized on the spot.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** _Normally I post a story or a new chapter and am met with a few reviews and a follow or favorite here or there. That's all fine and dandy! I still smile on receiving every one. But I was astounded at the number of follower notifications I received on posting my last chapter of_ The Meaning of Christmas. _Ultimately, I'm glad you all are liking this story, and thank you so much for taking the time to read it! I hope I'm doing_ The X-Files _justice in my attempted writings._

 _So thank you, all, again!_

* * *

The change of scenery helped. It was like the old saying said: out of sight, out of mind. The dining room had been a setting that demanded it's occupants remain at attention. The bright light emanating from the small chandelier ensured that no action went unobserved. Straight-backed chairs and a rigid dining table gave the impression of professionalism and severity even despite the casual conversations that had filtered through the air.

Things were much more relaxed in the dimmed glow of the living room. As before, only a few lamps were lit so that the brilliantly-colored tree would remain the center of attention. And the cushy chairs and couch were very welcome after a few hours of sitting on flat-bottomed, wooden seats. Well, that was true for everyone except for Charlie. Being the youngest Scully, he was the odd man out and forced to fetch one of the dining chairs for himself because the remainder of the seating space was utterly occupied.

Mulder was practically swallowed by leather as he leaned back against the center cushion of the couch. Scully had resumed her earlier seat to his right while Tara sat to his left. Feeling like an airplane passenger wedged into the dreaded middle seat of a plane's center aisle, he made sure he kept his elbows tucked into his sides and his hands resting in his lap. But despite the minor discomfiture from the awkward position, he was pleased. The cozy setting coupled with his full stomach and customary fatigue set him on track to dozing off in front of the whole Scully family. He really wanted to avoid that if at all possible. Scully would never let him live it down, teasing him mercilessly for the remainder of their partnership.

He wondered if he should excuse himself to bed, but quickly reconsidered when he remembered that Scully would be joining him in that bed. There was nothing more awkward than trying to tiptoe silently into a room where someone else was sleeping soundly. Every creak and clatter was magnified a hundredfold, and no matter how quiet you tried to be, the sleeping individual always woke up. Then came the apologies and subsequent reassurances that everything was alright. Even if that wasn't exactly how things would play out, it would still mean Scully fumbling in the dark for her bag or nonchalantly trying to pick through her garments while he heard—or saw, if he was still awake—everything.

Nope. It was better to go to bed together. There would be much less chance for anything remotely embarrassing to occur.

Mulder blinked, suddenly surprised at himself. He wasn't normally so self-conscious. He always acted on impulse, deciding what he wanted to do in the moment and sticking to his guns no matter how foolhardy that might be.

Yet he was second-guessing his actions and decisions, wondering if he had said the right thing or behaved appropriately in a specific moment. For some reason or another, he cared about presenting himself as the perfect house guest—even while he normally didn't care the slightest what his peers and colleagues thought of him.

It was an odd sensation—caring about such trite, social-oriented interactions. He usually only cared about Scully's opinion of him—and maybe Skinner's from time to time, so to suddenly be worried about the impression he made on people who were by and large total strangers to him—excluding Mrs. Scully—was a foreign concept to him. And yet he was determined to make a good impression.

He blinked again, leaving the conundrum unsolved, but resolved to try and remain alert for a little longer yet. If he could manage 8-hour stakeouts in the middle of the night while uncomfortably jammed into a cramped car with Scully, he shouldn't find it difficult to keep awake for another hour at least.

If only it weren't so silent….

When the group had migrated there from the dining room, they had been bursting with talk. Charlie had been rambling on about day-to-day life at the Naval base in Fort Worth with a few interjections here and there by Bill, mainly comments meant to provoke his little brother. Bill, being the eldest, held a higher rank than Charlie, and he rather liked to remind Charlie of that, sometimes exaggeratedly criticizing him for complaints he railed against his superior officers. Charlie mostly let the comments roll off his back, but he occasionally came back with a brotherly jab of his own.

As the brothers went back and forth, Tara had run back upstairs to fetch Matthew. Almost as soon as they had settled into the living room, her baby monitor went off, signaling that the one year-old was wide awake and looking for attention. She was gone for about fifteen to twenty minutes, during which time the conversation of the room had shifted to Bill overviewing the state of things in California: the political climate, sports talk, everyday life.

And finally Tara returned, reintroducing little, bright-eyed Matthew to the rest of the family again. Murmuring to her son, she wandered over to Mrs. Scully and passed him over before resuming her seat beside Mulder.

"He loves his grandma," she remarked to him with a smile before all conversation subsided into a drowsy, serene silence. It was as if with Matthew's entrance, the desire and necessity to talk had altogether abated. Those present could just enjoy the silence, and Mulder was on the verge of falling asleep.

His eyes snapped to Mrs. Scully, sitting in the living chair furthest from him. She still held Matthew, and the child squirmed happily in his grandmother's lap. He stared up at the towering Christmas tree, his eyes widened in wonder as the colorful lights danced against them. Tara chuckled at Mulder's side and reached a hand out to her left, searching for her husband. With a proud smile, Bill accepted her touch, squeezing her hand in his burly one. Seated on the lone dining chair with his back to the tree, Charlie rolled his eyes at the couple, but a small smile betrayed his delight at the sight of them.

Unable to help the little smile that made its way to his lips, Mulder's glance shifted to his partner. The smile quickly died away. Scully was staring at her nephew, but her expression was off. She was glassy-eyed and stared uncomprehendingly, her elbow perched on the armrest of the couch as she rested her chin in her open palm. Mulder suspected he could wave a hand in front of her face, and she wouldn't even blink. Her mind was in another place. He wondered if she was thinking of Emily. He wouldn't be surprised if that were true. The weekend was bound to bring up those memories repeatedly. Still unseeing, Scully raised her other hand to finger at her cross, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

Movement caught Mulder's attention. His eyes flickered to one side. Mrs. Scully had been contentedly watching her grandson, but she suddenly had eyes only for her daughter. Worry lines formed at her brow as she took in her daughter's state. Unafraid of any reproach that he might be given, Mulder carefully studied the older woman, wondering if she saw the same darkness clawing at Scully: the memories of Emily's miracle arrival and unwanted departure, the questions as to whether she had been abducted and experimented on just to further a shadowy cause that would cost even more, innocent lives—the lives of children who were only born to die.

Matthew would never have to fear suffering such a fate, but how many more young children would? And Matthew was a stark reminder of that fact, as well as the miracle Scully had been unjustifiably robbed of.

Mrs. Scully's bright eyes dimmed just the slightest as a small frown set across her features. The shift in her expression confirmed Mulder's suspicions. She saw Scully's suffering, too.

And suddenly Mrs. Scully's gaze flashed from her daughter to Mulder. She was aware that he had been watching her. Mulder remained stoic, his countenance betraying nothing of his mild embarrassment at having been caught. A case of embarrassment was nothing to the pain Scully felt in that moment, and Mrs. Scully was equally aware of that fact. She nodded, indicating she was grateful for his presence and the obvious concern he had for Scully. Simultaneously, she was yielding control of the situation over to him, showing that she trusted in his judgement when it came to her daughter.

Mulder found himself slightly taken aback. She was handing him the reins? Did she really consider him worthy of that monumental responsibility? Was he so reliable—even after all the hurt he had indirectly caused?

He always wanted what was best for Scully, of course, and he believed he had an eerily-accurate grasp of Scully's mannerisms and logical mode of thinking after six years of working together, but that didn't necessarily mean _he_ should be the one to take on that responsibility. But Mrs. Scully obviously believed otherwise and she was determinedly passing on the torch to him.

Despite his flummoxed state, Mulder found himself with newfound respect for Mrs. Scully. She had long ago proven herself to be Mulder's favorite upper-middle-aged woman. There was a dependability to her, and she almost always managed to maintain composure, even in the toughest times. Yet there was always a trace of her instinctual maternal nature. She allowed her children to lead their own lives without her imposing her will on them or passing judgment, but she always cared and she frequently worried—whether she made that known to them or not.

Mulder wondered if Scully understood exactly how much her mother took on in blind faith, trusting in the idea that she had raised exceptional, good-hearted children with the strength to tackle whatever confronted them in life. But there was always the fear and dread that something could go unbelievably wrong—as had happened in the past with her husband's unexpected death and daughter's accidental murder—yet she never asked her children to stop chasing their dreams or to cease leading the fulfilling lives they led.

Mulder suspected Scully didn't know; children rarely grasped the hardships their own parents went through in being a parent. He supposed he was hyper-sensitive to such personal scenarios, though, both because of his experience in profiling and because of his own volatile family history.

Whether or not Scully realized it, she was lucky.

And here Mrs. Scully was trusting her remaining daughter's well-being and life in his hands. She was not going to be petty like Bill, squabbling over Scully's perceived poor life choices. She was accepting her daughter for all that she was, and as unworthy as he was of it, that included him.

He nodded once, locking his eyes with hers. He wanted her to know how seriously he took her decision, and that he believed his obligation to Scully went beyond that solitary moment when she was lost in her clouded thoughts. He would _always_ act with Scully's well-being at heart.

Mulder's eyes roved back over to his partner. She hadn't moved an inch. Lithely, he brushed his fingertips along her cardigan.

"So you haven't told me why the fox was your favorite animal," he remarked, slipping his fingers from her arm and pointing up at the nearby tree. He could _just_ make at the orange origami figure nestled among the high branches and surrounded by the glowing Christmas lights.

Scully started at his touch, her head turning abruptly to look at him. Being so near her, he could hear her sharp intake of breath, almost like a gasp. Both her hands dropped to her lap.

"Sorry," she apologized weakly, blinking furiously as if trying to wake up from a deep sleep. "I was—" she coughed as her words had come out soundlessly—"I was lost in thought." Her voice returned to its full strength. "You asked something?"

For the briefest second, Mulder met Mrs. Scully's eyes. At least Scully was back in the world of the living.

"The fox," Mulder said again, pointing to the tree. "I was wondering why it was your favorite animal as a kid." Scully glanced over in that direction, staring up at the branches for a moment.

"I don't know," she replied with a shrug. "I suppose I thought that there was something majestic and beautiful about them. Such sleek, sharp, wily creatures capable of so much—whether it amounts to instinctual survival or just an enjoyment of life. I always remembering hearing stories from my second grade teacher when I was a girl. She told us about a time she caught a pair of fox cubs playing in her yard. She had a dog—a German Shepherd, I think—and she accidentally left one of his toy balls outside one day, and suddenly these two little foxes were having the time of their lives with the ball and each other." Scully smiled at the memory. She finally looked over to Mulder, neutrality returning to her expression. "They're curious creatures and they're fearless. I suppose I respected them for that." It was Mulder's turn to read the hidden messages in her words, and he smiled.

"Should I be flattered, Scully?" he intoned with a mischievous grin. Scully shrugged with a coy smile of her own, not giving in so easily.

"You wanted an answer, Mulder. I gave you one." Mulder let out a solitary chuckle.

"Uh-huh," he nodded, not entirely convinced by her counterstatement. "Whatever you say, Scully…." His gaze slid to lock eyes with Mrs. Scully again. She was chuckling with an amused smile on her face. To Mulder's understanding, she wasn't displeased with his methods; she might have even approved of them. No matter the truth of it, he had achieved his goal, at the very least. He smiled at her to which she nodded in return.

"Well," she announced to the room, the light in her eyes having returned, "perhaps it's time we had some coffee." She shifted forward in her chair, preparing to hand Matthew off to her son or daughter-in-law. Bill raised a hand and stood up instead.

"I'll get it, mom," he said easily. "Mattie should have some time with his grandma." He lightly ruffled his son's hair with a hand, then turned to the rest of the room. "Everyone want a cup?" There were no dissenters, she he nodded once brusquely before setting off. "I'll be back in a few minutes then."

Mulder stared at Bill's departing back, his eyes following the Navy man's trek to the open archway that lead to the spacious entrance room. An opportunity was presenting itself, and Mulder wondered whether he should grab at it. Before he had even finished his assessment, he found himself rising to his feet.

"I'll give him a hand," he said. Two sets of eyes flashed up to him in alarm. He tried to appear nonchalant, like he knew what he was doing, but truth be told, he had no idea what his plan was. He was just doing what he did best: acting on impulse, a hunch—with little to validate or verify his suppositions. He just knew he should speak to Bill in private while the chance was there.

He attempted a comforting smile to Mrs. Scully, hoping to placate her and reassure her that he intended nothing to get out of hand. She refrained from giving any reaction or cue, so Mulder continued on his way—winding around Scully while trying his utmost to avoid her gaze—and headed toward the door. She caught him by the arm as he passed by.

"Mulder…" she murmured with a firmly set frown marring her features. Mulder gaze strayed back to Bill, watching as the man disappeared into the depths of the house. He had the feeling he shouldn't risk losing a single minute with Bill, but Scully had to be tended to first. He returned to his partner, feeling the firm grip of her fingers through his sweater.

"If your brother and I are ever to see eye-to-eye..." he said to her softly, offering a cursory glance around the room to see if anyone else was listening in—not that it could really be avoided given the small space they occupied, "I need to speak with him. We need to sort things out, and to do that, I have to meet him head-on." His reasoning was sound to him, and he hoped it would be enough to convince Scully. Her expression morphed into one of incredulity.

"That's just your excuse to confront him because of your bruised male ego," she said without a hint of restraint. Mulder almost laughed; Scully never held back when it came to him, and he almost always appreciated her candor. But this time he needed her to let him go about his business. He offered a rakish grin and shrugged.

"How am I expected to fight human nature?" he questioned. "I'm not immune to all gender stereotypes, after all." He hoped his instinctual innuendos and charm would disarm Scully just that once, but she remained characteristically unflustered and sighed.

"Just…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, all too aware that he would more than likely ignore any advice or words of wisdom she had to give. "Just try to refrain from doing anything rash," she finally decided as she looking at him imploringly.

"When have I ever acted rashly, Scully?" he quipped exaggeratedly with a chuckle. He had intended the comment to comfort her and relieve her of her stress, but worry reflected back in her eyes. Only too well aware of how it would look, he crouched down so he could meet her eye-to-eye and reached for her hand. She frowned at him, but he couldn't tell whether it was because of the oddly intimate position he had put the two of them in while still surrounded by her family or because she was adamantly worried about him. He let those considerations slip away as he sought out the words he meant to speak. "I'm not going to let anything happen," he promised quietly. "I just want to talk and put the past behind us." He squeezed her hand gently.

"Then you'll likely need a Christmas miracle," Scully declared, sounding decidedly sure of herself.

"Well good thing you can get me in with the Big Man," Mulder returned teasingly. "Use a bit of that religious hocus pocus." Scully sighed, but a smile creeped through.

"It is _so_ rewarding to know you have faith, Mulder," she said sarcastically. He offered her a boyish grin.

"I try." Slowly, he slipped his hand from hers and resumed following Bill's trail.

"Fox," Mrs. Scully called from behind him. He turned once more, his brows shooting up in curiosity. "There's an apple pie in the fridge," she said. "Could you make sure that gets served with the coffee?" Mulder nodded, watching her eyes carefully for any sign of an ulterior motive in her request. She smiled at him before quickly becoming distracted by Matthew as he fidgeted in her arms.

 _Well, I have a job to do now_ , Mulder thought as he strode from the room.

* * *

Mulder wandered into the kitchen, looking around curiously. He hadn't had the opportunity to visit that specific room of Mrs. Scully's house yet, and he couldn't help but wonder how it compared to her daughter's spacious kitchen. Scully was nothing if not meticulous, detail-oriented, and organized. Every utensil, pot, and pan had its proper place, and she knew them all. What's more—it was usually immaculate on the times he had visited her apartment. The few times he saw something out of place, it was usually something as simple as an unwashed water glass sitting by the sink or an abandoned tupperware container situated amongst scattered case notes on her dining room table. But such little inconsistencies were easily rectified.

Mrs. Scully's kitchen was in less pristine condition, but that was to be expected. Recently used pots and pans cluttered the sink and surrounding area. Half-emptied serving dishes littered the remaining counter space. With the number of people that had been present as Christmas dinner, as well as the number of servings each person took, he was surprised there was any food left over at all. But it looked like Mrs. Scully still had enough food for a few meals more, at least.

 _At least Mrs. Scully can take a break for a few days_ , Mulder thought. As pleased as Mrs. Scully was by the quality and reception of her meal, he doubted she was in the mood to do so much cooking again so soon. _Then you have to consider the hefty shopping bill_. Mulder couldn't help the scowl that crossed his features; he had arrived at her house unexpected and unannounced, and she welcomed him with open arms, unconcerned about having to place another table setting and ensure there was enough food for another body. He wondered if he should leave her some money—a crude attempt at thanking her for her generosity. _Maybe I'll hide it in the sugar bowl_ , he mused to himself with a smile. He had been watching way too many old, black-and-white movies of late and had quickly picked up that while the mattress was always the prime money hiding spot, the sugar bowl came in at a close second place. _Wouldn't that be a surprise_.

His gaze swept along the cluttered countertop, wondering if Mrs. Scully might _actually_ have a sugar bowl. She seemed the sort the have a full coffee set, and those typically included sugar and creamer containers. The clinking of cups and saucers distracted him from his search, though. Bill was carefully removing the off-white porcelain dishes them from a nearby cupboard and setting them in a neat row. It was a surprising sight. Bill didn't seem the sort to worry about such insignificant details as using a matching coffee set, but then again, he was in his mother's household, so his opinion didn't really matter. He was expected to keep to her standards as a hostess.

"What are you doing here?" Bill asked impartially, only briefly glancing in Mulder's direction as he noticed the agent watching him. Mulder realized that his unwarranted appearance must seem odd and quickly set about his prescribed task.

"Your mom asked that I get something," he explained, striding over to the fridge and pulling it open. He spotted the pie on a lower shelf and tugged at the weighty, porcelain serving dish it sat in. He could tell by the look of the crumbly, golden-colored crust that it definitely wasn't store bought.

 _Mrs. Scully really outdid herself_ , he thought, shutting the refrigerator door and sliding the dish onto a small space of open counter. He carefully scooched some of the surrounding pots and pans so that nothing risked slipping and crashing to the floor. That was the last thing he needed.

"She asked that we serve pie with the coffee," Mulder said, returning to Bill and jutting a thumb toward the pie. Bill looked from between Mulder to the pie, and his eyes narrowed, as if undecided whether he should believe him. Finally, he shrugged and returned to sorting out the dishware, this time removing some dessert plates and forks, as well.

"You go and join the others," he said, doing surprisingly well at keeping composed despite the fact that he was in such close quarters with a man he shamelessly hated. "I'll handle it." He spoke with a sense of finality, a tone only a commander in the military would use. He expected his order to be heard and followed to the letter. But Mulder wasn't one of his recruits, and Mulder wasn't that kind of man.

"Listen, Bill," Mulder said, remaining in position beside the kitchen counter. He ensured his stance remained non-combative, his arms relaxing to his sides; he didn't want Bill thinking that he was looking for a fight. "I know you have a problem with me. You couldn't have made that plainer if you wanted to. And I think I know why, too." Bill ceased in his movements. For a moment, the only sound was the bubbling and boiling coffee as it steeped in the nearby pot. The Navy man turned with a grim, almost taunting smile.

"You don't know the half of it, Mr. Mulder," he said stonily.

 _So we're back to that, huh?_ Mulder thought, having to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Bill really couldn't let go of a grudge—no matter how many years it had been and how unlikely anything was to change.

"I think I do. We've gone over it all before," Mulder said straight-forwardly, seeing no benefit in beating around the bush. He might have sounded a bit cocky, but he knew all the old issues Bill held against him. "You don't like Scully being with me—working with me," he hastily amended. "You're worried for her safety and the danger I pose to her." He kept his tone level, unwilling to let past fears and incidents affect his demeanor. Bill really didn't need to know how frequently Mulder worried over that last point himself. The other man crossed his arms, that sneering smile returning to his face.

"Like I said, Mr. Mulder, you only know half of it."

"So what am I missing?" Mulder asked lazily.

"I know you're a danger to Dana, and I know she's not willing to give you up even when your pointless quest threatens to swallow her whole. She indicated as much in that hospital room two years ago." Bill paused for a moment, intermittently taking in and releasing a few breaths. "You know, Dana respects and cares for you in a way I've never seen from her before. It's almost like she's determined not to disappoint you, so she keeps fighting. She feels responsible for you." His throat tightened, his words coming out low and threatening.

"Scully does what she wants," Mulder responded, attempting to wave away any unfounded accusation Bill might come up with based on his assertions. "I have no say in that." But Mulder wondered on Bill's final statement, asking himself whether Scully only fought on his behalf. He quickly banished the thought. That might have been what Bill thought, but Scully had her own questions she needed answered. Her actions went beyond any possible debt she felt she might owe him; she fought for herself, too.

"You say that," Bill started, "but she keeps fighting for you—even when there are other things she should be concerned about. Her health for one, her own well-being. When she was sick with cancer yet stupidly determined to keep up with you." Mulder sighed; he couldn't fault Bill on that point.

"I tried to talk Scully out of it. I recommended she take things slow...both when she awakened from her coma and after her cancer diagnosis," he added before Bill could use her previous abduction against him. He shrugged. "Scully wanted to work. You expect me to go against her wishes?"

"I expect you to do what's best for her, Mr. Mulder," Bill returned forcefully. "I thought we had an understanding about that—that chasing your little green men wasn't worth my sister's life. Especially since your quest already took Melissa from us."

"And I told _you_ that I know what that kind of suffering is like," Mulder fired right back. "We've all lost loved ones. At this point, Scully and I are trying to bring those guilty parties to justice. Wouldn't you rather have Melissa's murderers in hand?"

"So how many of these men have you succeeded in convicting?" Bill asked stonily. Mulder dropped his gaze, refraining from taking up Bill's bait—his attempt to ridicule him. But Bill's question still prickled at him; it was a stark reminder at how little he had accomplished in eight years on the X-Files. "Exactly, Mr. Mulder. You aren't doing a damn thing."

"It isn't that easy," Mulder said quietly, attempting to rally to his own defense. "We're dealing with a covert organization of shadowy figures who masquerade as government officials and control every aspect of modern day life. This conspiracy goes into the literal depths of our government, and they've blocked every one of our efforts to dismantle them."

"You're borderline treasonous, Mr. Mulder," Bill warned him. It only spurred Mulder on.

"Hundreds if not thousands have suffered and died at these men's hands," he stated with more fervor than before. "Scully and I have both made sacrifices. Your whole family has. Unnecessary sacrifices." His speech increased in rapidity as the thoughts flew through his head. "So what do we do? Let these mysterious figures continually pull the puppet strings of our lives? Scully and I are trying to see this out, ensure that justice is served, and that can't always be done in courtrooms."

"So now you promote anarchy?" Bill scoffed. "Delivering your own brand of justice for crimes these supposed men have perpetrated?"

"Because that's the only way to sort this out!" Mulder insisted. "We've tried to do so through legal channels. Scully will back me on this—"

"I don't think I want to hear Dana's explanation for why she goes along with your idiocy," Bill cut him off, shaking his head. "She's smarter than this…." His gaze suddenly shifted to Mulder again. "You really do just get better and better, don't you, Mr. Mulder?" he said darkly. "And here I thought it was all about the little green aliens…."

"It's so much more than that," Mulder noted despondently. "And at this point, it goes beyond my sister's abduction. That's just one piece of the puzzle." He looked up at Bill imploringly.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was being so candid about everything. He really shouldn't be. Such talk was putting his job in jeopardy. Not to mention he was potentially putting Bill at risk by giving up information on the conspirators' plans and dealings. But Mulder hoped that in sharing a glimpse of the truth, Bill would come around. He would understand that Mulder wasn't acting out some personal death wish for either himself or Scully, intentionally and repeatedly putting the two of them in immediate danger. After so many years and uncovering so many elements of the conspirators' plots, Mulder had no choice but to continue along the path—not only for his own benefit but to justify the sacrifices of those killed throughout the years. Learning the truth, sharing that truth—finally foiling the conspiracy of silence that had worked for decades to cloak it behind fictitious events—that was what he was determined to do. That was his goal.

"Mr. Mulder," Bill said seriously, obviously unmoved by Mulder's attempts to relate, "you realize that right now I could phone your superior and have your position at the FBI terminated? Not only because of this conspiracy bullshit you're spewing at me, but because of the potentially sensitive information you're sharing with me."

"I know," Mulder replied blankly, unwilling to give Bill the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled—even while he was treading on fairly dangerous ground. Every muscle in his body had gone taut; he felt like he was waiting for the sound of a blow horn to begin running a marathon. The seconds ticked by slowly as the two men stared unwaveringly at one another. They were trapped in a moment of pure anticipation.

Finally, Bill sighed, his bluff called.

"I won't do it..." he admitted, "out of respect for Dana." He wanted Mulder to know exactly where his loyalties lay.

The immediate danger having passed, Mulder felt the tension in his stance dissipate. In hindsight, he suspected Bill wouldn't have gotten very far in his complaints anyway. Skinner and the other higher ups in the Bureau had dealt with his outlandish, "borderline treasonous" theories for years. Once they had finally had enough, they just ignored him and relegated him to the basement.

"I'm sure _Dana_ appreciates that," Mulder returned in an exaggerated, sarcastic tone. He knew Scully could handle herself and didn't need to look to her overbearing brother for protection. Bill shook his head and barked out a laugh.

"I really shouldn't be, but I'm constantly surprised by you," he remarked. "You just keep calm and cocky no matter what comes your way. No wonder you're able to handle all the destruction that seems to follow in your wake. I mean, whenever you show up something bad always seems to accompany you. The first time, it was Dana's cancer, then it was that little girl last year, and this time you come in talking about some stupid story where you almost killed one another. And it all just rolls right off your back." Since his attempted threat had failed, Bill was intentionally trying to provoke him now.

"Don't presume to know me," Mulder shook his head. His tone was deadly serious.

"I'm waiting for the day when you show up on my doorstep and tell me Dana's dead," Bill pressed. The final nail in the coffin. Mulder felt a shiver climb up his spine. He had dealt with that very prospect far more often than he would have liked. The memory of Scully trapped on that extraterrestrial vessel in Antarctica flashed before his mind's eye.

"I don't intend that to happen," Mulder said, shaking his head again and wishing he sounded more sure of himself. But he really couldn't imagine a world where Scully was dead. He remembered the time when Linda Bowman, Robert Patrick Modell's sister, "pushed" Scully into killing herself. That image of Scully lying crumpled on the ground was emblazoned in his brain—even while it was a lie. "I promise you that I would never purposefully let something happen to her." He made sure Bill could hear the vehemence in his tone.

"Intended or not, it could," Bill replied. "You can't deny that—unless you've developed the ability to predict the future, too." The taunting, cruel smile returned.

"Scully's her own woman. She joins me of her own volition. I can't push her into doing something she rather wouldn't. I've never been able to influence her in that way."

"Well, maybe you should," Bill returned sharply. "Maybe you should convince her otherwise—before she winds up dead at your feet because of something you started." Mulder smiled grimly.

"Even if I were to try and convince her, she wouldn't listen. And trust me, I've tried." Bill seemed authentically surprised by Mulder's last statement. His eyes narrows and his brows furrowed.

"Have you?" he asked.

"I told her to leave me," Mulder admitted without the slightest hesitation. "I told her to go be a doctor and live a full, respectable life—away from little green man and life-endangering partners." The dark humor was meant to be self-deprecating, but Bill only looked suspicious.

"And what did she say?"

"I believe her exact words were, 'If I quit now, they win.'" Bill sighed, his eyes dropping to the tiled floor beneath his feet. That had not been the answer he was hoping for.

"How long ago was this?" he asked neutrally.

"A couple months back," Mulder replied. "After she was administered a lethal virus and abducted to a compound in Antarctica." Bill didn't need to know all the details of Scully's most recent kidnapping, and Mulder sensed that Bill wouldn't go about accusing him of giving up government secrets this time. Not when it concerned his sister. "I was given a cure and tipped off on her location, so I recklessly embarked on a one-man rescue mission, and miraculously, I succeeded." He allowed the shadow of a proud smile to play at his lips. So much for Bill's constant allegations that he regularly put Scully's life in danger without any consideration for her well-being.

"You did that alone?" Bill asked redundantly, clearly stunned at Mulder's resolve.

"Yeah," Mulder nodded. "And once we were cleared for active duty following a two week-long hospital stay, I about begged her to leave."

"I told you she feels responsible for you…" Bill commented unhelpfully.

"Trust me, it's not in the way I'd like." Mulder smiled grimly again. But despite the bleak turn of conversation, he finally felt like he was getting somewhere with Bill. They were finding common ground and slowly coming to understand one another better.

"It's really not in the way I'd like either, Mr. Mulder," Bill agreed with a sharp nod. Bill's manner suddenly had Mulder reconsidering his assessment; there was something else Bill still had yet to mention. "Like I said," he continued, "Dana's taking responsibility for you first and foremost." He shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed his shoe along the ground, attempting to streak away a dirty spot. "She doesn't seem to think of her own health or the well-being of the rest of the family."

"That not true," Mulder immediately said with a small smile, silently wondering what Bill was getting at. He knew beyond a doubt that Scully constantly thought on her family and ensuring their safety.

"It _is_ ," Bill contradicted. "And honestly, I think it's something that hasn't even crossed your mind."

"What's that?" Mulder asked, inadvertently curious. He figured Bill must have some sort of ace up his sleeve, some trick to try and trip him up. He wouldn't go accusing his sister of being so heartless unless he had an ulterior motive.

"You dragged Dana with you on this quest rooting out your imaginary hidden evils, and you tell me yourself people are getting killed for it," Bill stated, looking to Mulder for confirmation. Mulder nodded affirmatively. "Have you even realized that you're not only putting Dana's life in jeopardy, but also that of my wife, my son, and my mother? We've already lost Melissa."

"Melissa's death was not an attempt to get back at Scully and me," Mulder interjected.

"She was killed in Dana's apartment with an untraceable firearm, and there was no evidence of an intruder." Bill stated the facts of the case slowly and assuredly. "That sounds like a hit to me."

"It's my belief that she wasn't the intended target," Mulder refuted. "They had been looking to eliminate Scully. Melissa was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That doesn't change things," Bill said shaking his head. "Melissa's still dead. And your father—if what you say is true. Another warning from your mystery men that you blatantly disregarded?" Mulder sighed. He didn't want to seem cold-hearted and callous by talking about the dead so flippantly, but he was trying to address Bill's claims in a detached, level-headed manner.

 _How does Scully manage this?_

"My father was killed for specific reasons only pertaining to him," Mulder explained vaguely. "He was targeted because the conspiracy sought to silence him."

"Sounds like your father ran in the same circles you do," Bill remarked. Mulder chuckled.

"Something like that…" he agreed before returning to Bill with newfound vigor. "My point is that these men don't condone unnecessary killing. They kill when it suits their purposes."

"And if Dana had sensitive information pertaining to this conspiracy and threatened to present it, my family would be the perfect ransom. Our lives for her silence." Mulder shook his head.

"Your deaths would only validate our claims that there _is_ a secret government conspiracy perpetuating lies and consistently misdirecting the general public. Because of your relationship to Scully, if any of you were killed, they would only draw attention to themselves, and their entire operation would be forfeit."

"Unless they adequately cleaned up the crime scene," Bill pointed out.

"Which they have done in the past," Mulder assented. "They've also tried to have Scully and myself killed. Lucky for us, they've repeatedly failed." He smiled slightly at the Navy man.

"If they're afraid to draw attention to themselves, why try to kill you? Why kidnap Dana?" Mulder shifted his stance some, placing the brunt of his weight against the other foot.

"Because—unlike you—we've seen too much. Better to let us see a little and run around like Chicken Little claiming the sky is falling to the disbelieving masses than see too much and come forward with irrefutable evidence. Scully and I are on the cusp of putting the pieces together, and they needed leverage to shut me up, to prevent me from exposing them. So they took Scully." Speaking his last statement aloud left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated being the cause of Scully's suffering. Bill crossed his arms.

"So all that talk—your entire argument—is invalid, Mr. Mulder," he stated evenly. "They _are_ willing to kill anybody who gets in their way." Mulder sighed.

"Yes," he admitted, "but they only act when it's beneficial to them. I can't tell you the criteria they use to determine which deaths are profitable and which are negligible. I mean, they've tried to kill me and Scully, but they've also allowed us to live at times. Their perspective is constantly shifting, as is their willingness to take certain drastic measures." He took in a couple breaths before continuing on. "I _can_ tell you with certainty that they're always watching; they know exactly how people are related or connected to one another, they know individuals' weaknesses, their routines, their habits, whatever." Mulder chuckled. "Big Brother's watching, and if you rattle enough cages, they'll remove you from the equation."

"So that means that anyone remotely associated with you—whether it's the kid who delivers your paper or your direct superior—is potentially in the line of fire. We could all be black-bagged and dragged away into oblivion one day."

"And that's why these men must be removed from power," Mulder nodded. Whether or not Bill actually believed him, he was taking the matter very seriously. Better to err on the side of caution than of ignorance, after all. And he had seen how frequently Scully found herself in potentially dangerous situations, so he knew—to some extent—that an outside threat could be very real.

"It all comes back to what I said at the start, Mr. Mulder," Bill noted after a few moment's silence. "You've talked us right in a circle. Because of Dana's involvement with you, my family is in a permanent state of danger."

"And whether she stays me or not is her prerogative," Mulder reminded him. "If Scully weren't happy with her position or our partnership, she could request reassignment. And I guarantee you that her request would be immediately granted if she did so," he added for Bill's benefit, guessing that the man would question whether her request would be denied because of her close association with him. "Scully is invaluable to the Bureau with her medical expertise and field experience. I'm sure other divisions wouldn't pass up the chance to get her in their department," Mulder said kindly. He didn't want Bill thinking that Scully was a rebellious, reckless black sheep. More often than not, she was the one reining Mulder back from tearing off into the darkness without the slightest idea of where to go. Bill frowned, and Mulder could practically hear him asking himself why Dana never put in for that transfer. "I can't dictate what your sister does," Mulder said simply. "And neither should you." His final sentence came across more forceful, an attempt to remind Bill that he shouldn't judge Scully and her life choices. The words struck a nerve in Bill.

"I'm trying to keep my family safe," he fired back. "It's more than you or Dana try to do!"

 _Low blow,_ Mulder thought with a wince. He wasn't entirely sure what he should answer with; he felt that anything he said could potentially set Bill off, then suddenly the perfect response hit him.

"Every life, every day is in danger. That's just life."

"What?" Bill asked, his face setting into a confused expression.

"My boss told me that," Mulder explained. "When Scully was in her coma."

"What does that have to do with this?" Bill persisted.

"People might wind up ill or dead, and we might kick ourselves, thinking we're to blame, but that's just life. We all die."

It was morbid talk, and Mulder knew it. But Bill was being resilient in laying blame at his—and subsequently Scully's—feet. He wasn't letting up, and he really needed to back off if relationships were ever to progress forward. And that meant he might need to learn a hard lesson.

"You don't think your mother knows the danger she might be in?" Mulder honestly asked, trying a different tactic to get through to Bill, though it wasn't one he really wanted to use. "The mother of an FBI agent and two Navy men? Scully is constantly in the field, and you could be deployed and sent out to active combat at any time. That means at any time, and for whatever reason, the three of you could die. It's the nature of your careers." He allowed the words to sink in for a moment before continuing. "What's more, that means that the three of you could be prone to making enemies who hold grudges: a recruit you pushed too far or someone Scully put away. And those people might come after your loved ones—your mother, your wife, your son. If you enter into that sort of life, you have to accept the potential consequences."

"So I should just let fate take its course?" Bill asked incredulously.

"You should accept the life you chose," Mulder responded. "And you should realize that death can claim us at any moment."

"When it comes to my family—" Bill fumed, stepping nearer.

"When it comes to your father!" Mulder thundered over him. Bill immediately shut up. "Ever since your father died, you've been trying to fill his shoes—trying to make sure nothing so tragic happens again. But that's life! Tragedy happens, and we all face it daily! You want to keep your family together—and that's a commendable goal—but it's one that can't be accomplished by you clinging to the shadow of your father." His tirade over, Mulder gave himself a moment to catch his breath. He swallowed. "Your family doesn't need the ghost of your father assessing and judging their lives through your eyes."

Bill stood there still and silent as stone. In the absolute quiet, Mulder finally noticed that the coffee had finished brewing. He wondered how long it had been sitting there cooling as they went back and forth. He kind of wished it would magically come back on; the bubbling and gurgling of the coffee pot had been a comforting noise, grounding the two of them in reality. Without anything to serve as a reminder of where they were and what was occurring, someone was liable to snap. And sure enough….

Bill's arm reared back and he swung. Mulder juked to his right, and Bill's hand glanced off his temple just in line with his eye. He felt a sharp stab of pain in his head, but couldn't give up an advantage. As Bill completed the arc of his swing, Mulder rammed a fist into his stomach. The burly man keeled over gasping for breath, and Mulder circled around him, locking an arm around his throat, before throwing himself backwards.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Mulder yelled as Bill fought against his headlock. Despite Bill's attempt to throw him off, Mulder didn't let up. He couldn't risk Bill getting loose and starting an all-out brawl. But the guy wouldn't submit. Mulder was forced to tighten his hold, hoping that a lack of oxygen would make him more agreeable. He felt a wet, sticky substance start to flow down the side of his face.

 _At least it wasn't a knockout punch_ , Mulder thought incidentally.

Scully ran into the room with Charlie hot on her heels.

"Mulder!" she cried in alarm. She sounded like she was simultaneously questioning and berating him. She stared at him for all the world like he'd gone mad, a look he was uncomfortably familiar with.

"I'll let him go as soon as he agrees not to take another swipe at me," Mulder grunted as he grappled with Bill. The man was definitely weakening, either because he finally saw the futility of fighting or because Mulder's chokehold was taking effect.

"What's going on?" Tara asked in dismay as she froze in the doorway alongside her mother-in-law. Mrs. Scully was still holding Matthew.

"Stay back for now," Scully cautioned as she hovered by Mulder's side. Charlie rounded in front of Bill, ready to grab his brother in case he should lunge back toward Mulder. "Bill, relax," Scully commanded, setting a hand against her brother's arm. "Mulder's going to let you go." She turned to lock eyes with Mulder, and he nodded. In one swift movement, Mulder released his hold, raising his hands to his sides in show that he didn't mean to continue things any further. Bill staggered toward Charlie, coughing and shaking his head vigorously at the sudden ability to breath normally again. Charlie caught him by the chest and pounded him on the back as Tara immediately raced over to her husband.

Mrs. Scully remained in the doorway, observing the sight with cautious eyes while Matthew looked around curiously. After a cursory glance over Bill's form, Scully turned toward Mulder.

"What happened?" she asked softly, taking his head in her hands and tilting it so she could get a look at the gash along his temple.

"Your brother and I were working out our differences." Scully reached into a nearby drawer for a clean kitchen towel and began to dab lightly at the wound. Mulder let out a hiss. Each time she pulled the towel away, he saw the crimson splotch grow bigger and redder.

"What did you say to him?" she tried again.

"The truth," he vaguely answered.

"Which was?" she pressed, quickly getting frustrated with his overt attempts to avoid the question.

"That Bill doesn't need to try and be your father." Scully stopped tending to him. She lowered the cloth and finally looked Mulder in the eye. Her expression was initially unreadable, but steadily softened. While Scully normally didn't like having other interfere in her affairs, she was appreciative of his attempt. He didn't need to say anything to Bill—and honestly he really shouldn't have—but Scully realized that things weren't likely to change unless something drastic was done.

"I'm not sure whether this qualifies as a Christmas miracle," she quipped as she returned to his wound. He noticed the smallest of smiles grace her features for a few seconds. "But the cut isn't deep." She brushed at it one more time. "You won't require stitches, but I should look at it more closely."

"I think I took a knuckle to the temple," Mulder said, gingerly touching the area around the wound. "He threw a punch at me." She nodded, pulling his hand away.

"It looks like it," she agreed with a sigh. "Be thankful it's not a few inches over, though, otherwise blood would be pouring into your eye."

"As opposed to all over my face?" Mulder returned. She rolled her eyes and handed the towel to him.

"Hold this on it," she ordered before walking over to the sink. She returned with a handful of wet paper towels and ran them along his face, cleaning up the streaks of fresh blood that covered him.

"Thanks, Scully," he said once she had finished up. He had considered coming back with a witty one-liner, but ultimately felt it wasn't really the time or the place. Not after what had just happened. Scully peeked under the cloth he held against his brown then replaced it.

"It's looking better," she nodded before looking over toward her brother. "Is there anything else you did to Bill?" she asked, resting her hands on her hips.

"I might have punched him in the stomach," Mulder admitted hesitantly. Scully reached up and pressed his hand more firmly against the towel.

"Keep that to your head while I go check on Bill. Hopefully the bleeding will have stopped when I get back." Without another word, she crossed the kitchen.

Mulder stared at the sight of the Scully children all huddled together. Bill was leaning back against the kitchen counter, letting out a few raspy coughs. Charlie stood at his side with his arms crossed as he talked to his elder brother while Tara looked him over in worry. Once Scully arrived, Tara backed off and Charlie dropped his arms to his sides, looking more disappointed than anything. Scully tried to look Bill over, but he waved her off. A look of aggravation crossing her features, she argued with him. Bill wasn't having it, though. He fired back at her, and Charlie was forced to step in to try and mediate the situation.

 _I guess Bill wasn't far off the mark. I really_ am _one sorry son of a bitch_ , Mulder thought looking at the havoc he had inadvertently wrought. He repositioned the towel against his wound.

"Fox?" Mulder looked over to his side. Mrs. Scully hesitantly stepped up. Matthew stared up at him with wide eyes before looking over toward his father and reaching out in that direction.

"Hey, Mrs. Scully," Mulder smiled grimly. He didn't want to look her in the eyes. In going to confront Bill, he knew he was playing with fire, but he thought the reward was worth the risk. Apparently, he had been wrong. "I'm sorry about all this," he apologized.

"Are you alright, Fox?" she asked, ignoring his attempted apology.

"Yeah," Mulder nodded. "Scully will patch me up, and I'll be good as new. I've taken worse hits." He repositioned the cloth again. "She's checking on Bill now," he added for good measure despite the fact that she could see that for herself.

"I feel I should apologize for Bill's behavior," Mrs. Scully said much to Mulder's surprise. "He's not usually so coarse." Mulder immediately shook his head.

"No, no," he disagreed. "It's fine. I'm to blame for this. I shouldn't have been here to begin with. In fact, I think I should go so I don't risk ruining your holidays any further."

"No, Fox. Stay." Mulder shook his head.

"I-I can't do that with a good conscience, Mrs. Scully."

"Stay, Fox," she repeated. "My children are stubborn." She briefly glanced over at the group of them. "You should know that working with Dana. It takes them time to come around."

"It's coming on two years. I don't think Bill will ever come around at this point."

"Maybe not to like you," Mrs. Scully agreed, "but he'll at least have to accept you. You are part of Dana's life—and my life by extension, Fox. I wouldn't have you go if Dana wants you here." Mulder was still skeptical. He felt ill at ease taking advantage of Mrs. Scully's generosity under the circumstances, and he worried he had permanently damaged Scully's relationship with her brother.

He didn't get a chance to voice his concerns.

"He won't let me look at him," Scully sighed as she approached the two of them. "He insists he's fine."

"I'll try to talk to him," Mrs. Scully offered looking between the two of them before walking off with Matthew. Scully turned to look at Mulder again, taking the cloth from him and looking at the wound. She delicately fingered the area around it.

"Let's get you upstairs. The bathroom has better lighting," she remarked. As she drew her hand away, Mulder caught her by the wrist.

"Scully, I'm not sure I should stay here," he remarked. "I've just about ruined your mom's dinner, and I think I only made things worse between your brother and me." She looked over to her brother, now talking stubbornly with his mother.

"He'll have to deal with it," she said defiantly, her blue eyes flashing back toward his. "Come on. I think I have some butterfly stitches in my medical bag." She tugged at the fabric of his shirt. Mulder did as he was told, but continued his protests.

"I honestly wouldn't mind, Scully. I'll take the car, find a motel for the night, and pick you up tomorrow morning. You can enjoy the rest of your holiday in peace." She mounted the stairs leading to the second floor, and he kept right on her heels.

"It's better for you to stay, Mulder," she refuted. "I'd rather have you somewhere I can keep an eye on you. In case that knock on the head turns out to be something more." She looked back at him, nodding to the cut along his temple. Mulder had the distinct feeling Scully was exaggerating the circumstances, trying to come up with the viable reason for him to stay other than outright asking him to. Likely because she knew he would reject any such offer.

She stopped suddenly on the stairs and spun around.

"Charlie!" she called. A few moments later, her youngest brother poked his head around the corner.

"Yeah?"

"Could you get my medical bag from the trunk of the car?" she asked. "I need to patch Mulder up." Charlie nodded agreeably. "The keys are in my coat pocket," she added. Charlie signaled back to her with a thumbs up, and Scully continued her way up the stairs.

Marching down the hall, she flipped on the bathroom light and gestured Mulder in first.

"Scully, it's really not that bad," Mulder said raising his hands and shaking his head. "It'll heal on its own."

"Just let me take care of it," Scully insisted, unwilling to back down. With a sigh, Mulder walked into the bathroom. "Sit down so I can get a better look at you," Scully ordered him, pointing to the toilet. He did as he she asked, turning his head to better accommodate her.

"How's your brother?" Mulder asked, feeling it was the suitable thing to do.

"Based on a limited visual examination," Scully said distractedly as she focused on his cut, "he's fine. He might have a few bruises on his neck, but his breathing seems normal." She met his eyes. "I think you just took him by surprise. He's not used to losing a fight like that."

"So was my besting your brother just as thrilling as I imagined?" Mulder teased. He couldn't help falling back on routine. Scully rolled her eyes.

"I'm just happy I don't have to reset any broken bones. I can handle a few cuts and bruises." Charlie appeared in the doorway with a bright red medical get.

"Here you go, Dana," he said, handing it over to Scully.

"Thanks, Charlie," she replied before he disappeared again. She set the bag on the edge of the vanity and zipped it open.

"Come on," Mulder prompted as she dug through the bag's contents. "You can't tell me you weren't a little impressed." Scully removed a brown hydrogen peroxide bottle and set it to one side, then looked him in the eyes.

"I'm impressed you showed the restraint you did," she admitted sincerely. "I'd been worried the two of you were going to break into a fight two minutes into your conversation." She cast her eyes down to the tiled floor. "Bill can be overly aggressive like that."

"I didn't want to hurt him," Mulder conceded, shaking his head slowly. "I just wanted to talk. Get our issues out in the open and hopefully sort through them." Scully smirked.

"I'm not sure how much good that did," she said, pulling out a cotton ball and a couple butterfly closures.

"Every man's got to have a scar or two to show off," Mulder grinned suggestively. "How else are we supposed to attract women? Our inherent wit and charm?" Scully chuckled lightly as she placed the cotton ball to the top of the hydrogen peroxide bottle and tipped it over.

"Good thing you're a full package, Mulder," she replied coyly. Mulder's face about fell in shock at the compliment before he let out an audible hiss when she rubbed the alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the cut. "Except for that low pain tolerance, of course."

"Ouch, Scully!" Mulder groaned exaggeratedly. "That stung!"


End file.
